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April 1956 • 35 Cents

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SCIENCE FICTION

VOLUME LVil • NUMBER 2

Novelettes

The Dead Past

Legwork

Short Story

The Man Who Always Knew

Serial

Double Star

(Conclusion)

Article

The Curious Profession . . .

Readers' Departments

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In Times to Come

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Brass Tacks

April 1956

. . . Isaac Asimov 6
Eric Frank Russell 52

. . . Algis Budrys 47

Robert A. Hemlein 111

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144

P. Schuyler Miller 145
154

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• 3

EDITORIAL

THE GROUP
AND

THE INDIVIDUAL

Basically, sociology is the study
of how groups of human beings be-
have, and psychology the study of
how individual human beings be-
have — but it’s evident that there
can't be a group without individuals
to compose it. To that extent, at
least, psychology is the basis of so-
ciology, and the statistics on indi-
vidual behavior that psychologists
collect are valid as a social function.
But ... I think I can show that they
have no useful meaning for psychol-
ogy itself — for the understanding of
individual human beings.

First, it needs to be recognized
that human thinking, human science
and theories of method of under-
standing, can not, in any field of
effort, relate the individual and the
group. There is a wide-open, and
very fundamental hole in our meth-

ods of thought; we are simply, com-
pletely, and fundamentally unable
to express the relationship of indi-
vidual-identity to group-nature, in
any field of study. We have a science
of electronics- — the study of indi-
vidual electron behavior— and a sci-
ence of electrical engineering, which
is a different thing. In that particu-
lar field, we have made some en-
gineering-level, rule-of-thumb cor-
relations between electron-behavior
and electric-current behavior.

But we have, in fundamental
physics, the problem of "quantum
statistics,” which allows prediction
and calculation of relatively gross
matters concerning quanta in groups
— but doesn't tell us much that's
useful about individual quanta. And
the behavior of individuals is funda-
mentally different from the behavior

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

of groups-of-those-same-individuals.
Laws which do apply to individuals
do not apply to those individuals- in-
groups. Example: an individual nu-
clear particle can short-circuit, by-
pass, duck-under, or somehow play
ducks and drakes with the normal
laws of energy relationships; a nu-
clear particle two million volts deep
inside the nuclear potential wall
somehow gives a twist, a hop-skip-
ancl jump, and . . . presto! It’s out-
side the wall, without having ac-
quired the necessary energy to
climb over the wall. It's as though
an automobile that wanted to go
from a point in Colorado on one
side of the Rockies to a point in
California at the same elevation
above sea level, but on the other
side of the mountains, gave a quiver,
a shake, and . . whoops ! There it

is in California!

It takes energy equivalent to seven
miles a second to get a mass out of
the Earth’s gravitational well — and
that’s what keeps us Earth-bound.
But note this: there is a point in
space between the Earth and the
Sun, where a mass would have the
same net total gravitational energy
potential as it does on the surface
of the Earth. It would have fallen
millions of miles toward the Sun,
and the energy so released would
be equal to the energy necessary to
lift that mass out of the Earth’s
much feebler gravitational well.

Then if we could make a space-
ship act like a nuclear particle, we
could escape Earth by the simple
process of ducking through, or un-

THE GROUP AND THE INDIVIDUAL

der, or around, or something, that
gravitational barrier. No violation
of the law of conservation of energy
is involved, either.

Now individual particles can and
do do precisely that sort of thing.
But while that is a Law of Nature
relevant to particles, it does not
apply to groups-of-particles.

But that is equivalent to saying
that the Law of Nature that makes
it impossible for a spaceship to duck
out into space is not applicable to
individual particles. What a space-
ship cannot do, a particle can do — -
and, in Nature, if a particle can do
a thing, it must. Make it possible
for water to run down hill, and that
water must.

We do not have any way of relat-
ing the fundamental nature of a
particle-individual to a wave-group
— nor can we, because we don’t
know how, relate the individual hu-
man being to the laws of sociology.
We lack a method of stating that
type of relationship, or considering
the laws of individual-group dynamic
relational forces at a fundamental
level. If we did have, we could use
those lav/s to explain quantum
mechanics, and social dynamics alike.
Arithmetic applies to both fields; the
sort of relational understanding I’m
talking about would apply to both.

Until we do have such an under-
standing, however, statistical studies
of human beings belong in the field
of sociology, and are not, properly,
to be considered studies of human
individuals-as-such at all. The laws
( Continued on page 160)

THE BEAD PAST

There ’s the old saying, “Let the dead
past bury its dead.” But . . . how long does
a past have to be passed before it’s dead?

BY ISAAC ASIMOV

Illustrated by van Dongen

Arnold Potterley, Ph.D. was a
Professor of Ancient History. That,
in itself, was not dangerous. What
changed the world beyond all dreams

was the fact that he looked like a
Professor of Ancient History.

Thaddeus Araman, Department
Head of the Division of Chronos-

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

copy, might have taken proper ac-
tion if Dr. Potterley had been owner
of a large, square chin, flashing eyes,
aquiline nose and broad shoulders.

As it was, Thaddens Araman
found himself staring over his desk
at a mild-mannered individual, whose
faded blue eyes looked at him wist-
fully from either side of a low-
bridged button nose; whose small,
neatly-dressed figure seemed stamp-
ed "Milk-and-water” from thinning
brown hair to the neatly- brushed
shoes that completed a conservative
middle-class costume.

Araman said pleasantly, "And now
what can I do for you, Dr. Potter-
ley?”

Dr. Potterley said in a soft voice
that went well with the rest of him,
"Mr. Araman, I came to you because
you're top man in chronoscopy.”

Araman smiled. "Not exactly.
Above me is the World Commission-
er of Research and above him is the
secretary general of the United Na-
tions. And above both of them, of
course, are the sovereign peoples of
Earth.”

Dr. Potterley shook his head.
"They’re not interested in chronos-
copy. I've come to you, sir, because
for two years I have been trying to
obtain permission to do some time-
viewing — chronoscopy, that is — in
connection with my researches on
ancient Carthage. I can’t obtain such
permission. My research grants are
all proper. There is no irregularity
in any of my intellectual endeavors
and yet — ”

"I’m sure there is no question of

irregularity,” said Araman, sooth-
ingly. He flipped the thin reproduc-
tion-sheets in the folder to which
Potterley’s name had been attached.
They had been produced by Multivac,
whose vast analogical mind kept all
the department records. When this
was over, the sheets could be de-
stroyed, then reproduced on demand
in a matter of minutes.

And while Araman turned the
pages. Dr. Potterley’s voice continued
in a soft monotone.

The historian was saying, "I must
explain that my problem is quite an
important one. Carthage was aheient
commercialism brought to its zenith.
Pre-Roman Carthage was the nearest
ancient analogue to pre-atomic Amer-
ica, at least insofar as its attachment
to trade, commerce and business in
general was concerned. They were
the most daring seamen and explorers
before the Vikings; much better at
it than the over-rated Greeks.

"To know Carthage would be very
rewarding, yet the only knowledge
we have of it is derived from the
writings of its bitter enemies, the
Greeks and Romans. Carthage itself
never wrote in its own defense or,
if it did, the books did not survive.
As a result, the Carthaginians have
been one of the favorite sets of vil-
lains of history and perhaps unjustly
so. Time-viewing may set the record
straight.”

He said much more.

Araman said, still turning the .re-
production-sheets before him, "You
must realize, Dr. Potterley, that

THE DEAD PAST

chronoscopy, or time-viewing, if you
prefer,, is a difficult process.”

Dr. Potterley, who had been inter-
rupted, frowned and said, "I am ask-
ing lor only certain selected views
at times and places I would indi-
cate.”

Araman sighed. "Even a few
views, even one — It is an unbelieva-
bly delicate art. There is the question
of focus, getting the proper scene in
view and holding it. There is the
synchronization of sound, which calls
for completely independent circuits.”

"Surely my problem is important
enough, to justify considerable
effort,”.

"Yes, sir. Undoubtedly,” said Ara-
man at once. To deny the importance
of someone's research problem would
be unforgivably bad manners. "But
you ■ must understand how long-
drawn-out even the simplest view is.
And there is a long waiting line for
the chronoscope and an even longer
waiting line for the use of Multivac
which guides us in our use of the
controls.”

Potterley stirred unhappily. "But
can nothing be done? For two
years-e-”

"A matter of priority, sir. I’m
sorry. Cigarette?”

The historian started back at the
suggestion, eyes suddenly widening
as he stared at the pack thrust out
toward him. Araman looked sur-
prised, withdrew the pack, made a
motion as though to take a cigarette
tor himself and thought better of it.

Potterley drew a sigh of unfeigned
relief as the pack was put out of

sight. He said, "Is there any way of
reviewing matters, putting me as far
forward as possible? I don't know
how to explain — ”

Araman smiled. Some had offered
money under similar circumstances
which, of course, had gotten them
nowhere, either. He said, "The deci-
sions on priority are computer-proc-
essed. I could in no way alter those
decisions arbitrarily.”

Potterley rose stiffly to his feet.
He stood five and a half feet tall.
"Then good day, sir."

"Good day, Dr. Potterley. And my
sincerest regrets.”

He offered his hand and Potterley
touched it briefly.

The historian left and a touch of
the buzzer brought Araman’s secre-
tary into the room. He handed her
the folder.

"These,” he said, "may be dis-
posed of.”

Alone again, he smiled bitterly.
Another item in his quarter-century’s
service to the human race. Service
through negation.

At least, this fellow had been easy
to dispose of. Sometimes, academic
pressure had to be applied and even
withdrawal of grants.

Five minutes later, he had forgot-
ten Dr. Potterley. Nor, thinking back
on it later, .could he remember feel-
ing any premonition of danger.

During the first year of his frus-
tration, Arnold Potterley had experi-
enced only that — frustration. During
the second year, though, his frustra-
tion gave birth to an idea that first

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

frightened and then fascinated him.
Two things stopped him from trying
to translate the idea into action, and
neither barrier was the undoubted
fact that his notion was a grossly
unethical one.

The first was merely the contin-
uing hope that the government would
finally give its permission and make
it unnecessary for him to do any-
thing more. That hope had perished
finally in the interview with Araman
just completed.

The second barrier had been not
a hope at all but a dreary realization
of his own incapacity. He was not
a physicist and he knew no physicists
from whom he might obtain help.
The Department of Physics at the
University consisted of men well-
stocked with grants and well-
immersed in specialty. At best, they
would not listen to him. At worst,
they would report him for intellec-
tual anarchy and even his basic Car-
thaginian grant might easily be with-
drawn.

That he could not risk. And yet
chronoscopy was the only way to
carry on his work. Without it, he
would be no worse off if his grant
were lost.

The first hint that the second
barrier might be overcome had come
a week earlier than his interview
with Araman, and it had gone un-
recognized at the time. It had been
at one of the faculty teas. Potterley
attended these sessions unfailingly
because he conceived attendance to
be a duty, and he took his duties
seriously. Once there, however, he

conceived it to be no responsibility
of his to make light conversation or
new friends. He sipped abstemiously
at a drink or two, exchanged a po-
lite word with the dean or such de-
partment heads as happened to be
present, bestowed a narrow smile at
others, and finally left early.

Ordinarily, he would have paid no
attention, at that most recent tea, to
a young man standing quietly, even
diffidently, in one corner. He would
never have dreamed of speaking to
him. Yet a tangle of circumstance
persuaded him this once to behave
in a way contrary to his nature.

That morning at breakfast, Mrs.
Potterley had announced somberly
that once again she had dreamed of
Laurel; but this time a Laurel grown
up, yet retaining the three-year-old
face that stamped her as their child.
Potterley had let her talk. There had
been a time when he fought her
too-frequent preoccupation with the
past and death. Laurel would not
come back to them, either through
dreams or through talk. Yet if it
appeased Caroline Potterley— let her
dream and talk.

But when Potterley went to school
that morning, he found himself for
once affected by Caroline’s inanities.
Laurel grown up! She had died
nearly twenty years ago; their 1 only
child, then and ever. In all that time,
when he thought of her, it was as a
three-year-old.

Now he thought: But if she were
alive now, she wouldn’t be three,
she’d be nearly twenty-three.

Helplessly, he found himself try-

THE DEAD PAST

ing to think of Laurel as growing
progressively older; as finally becom-
ing twenty-three. He did not quite
succeed.

Yet he tried. Laurel using make-
up. Laurel going out with boys.
Laurel — getting married !

So it was that when he saw the
young man hovering at the outskirts
of the coldly circulating group of
faculty men, it occurred to him
quixotically, that, for all he knew,
a youngster just such as this might
have married Laurel. That youngster
himself, perhaps —

Laurel might have met him, here
at the university, or some evening
when he might be invited to dinner
at the Potterleys. They might grow
interested in one another. Laurel
would surely have been pretty and
this youngster looked well. He was
dark in coloring, with a lean intent
face and an easy carriage.

The tenuous daydream snapped,
yet Potterley found himself staring
foolishly at the young man, not as
a strange face but as a possible son-
in-law in the might-have-been. He
found himself threading his way to-
ward the man. It was almost a form
of autohypnotism.

He put out his hand. "I am Arnold
Potterley of the History Department.
You're new here, I think?”

The youngster looked faintly as-
tonished and fumbled with his
drink, shifting it to his left hand in
order to shake with his right. "Jonas
Foster is my name, sir. I'm a new
instructor in Physics. I'm just starting
this semester.”

Potterley nodded, "I wish you a
happy stay here and great success.”

That was the end of it, then. Pot-
terley had come uneasily to his senses,
found himself embarrassed and
moved off. He stared back over his
shoulder once, but the illusion of
relationship had gone. Reality was
quite real once more and he was
angry with himself for having fallen
prey to his wife’s foolish talk about
Laurel.

But a week later, even while Ara-
man was talking, the thought of that
young man had come back to him.
An instructor in Physics. A new in-
structor. Had he been deaf at the
time? Was there a short circuit be-
tween car and brain. Or was it an
automatic self-censorship because of
the impending interview with the
Head of Chronoscopy.

But the interview failed and it was
the thought of the young man with
whom he had exchanged two sen-
tences that prevented Potterley from
elaborating his pleas for considera-
tion. He was almost anxious to get
away.

And in the autogiro express back
to the University, he could almost
wish he w'ere superstitious. He could
then console himself with the
thought that the casual meaningless
meeting had really been directed by
a knowing and purposeful Fate.

Jonas Foster w'as not new to aca-
demic life. The long and rickety
struggle for the doctorate would
make anyone a veteran. Additional

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

work as a post-doctorate teaching
fellow acted as a booster shot.

But now he was Instructor Jonas
Foster. Professorial dignity lay
ahead. And he now found himself
in a new sort of relationship toward
other professors.

For one thing, they would be vot-
ing on future promotions. For an-
other, he was in no position to tell
so early in the game which particular
member of the faculty might or
might not have the ear of the Dean
or even of the University President.
He did not fancy himself as a campus
politician and was sure he would
make a poor one, yet there was no
point in kicking his own rear into
blisters just to prove that to himself.

So Foster listened to this mild-
mannered historian who, in some
vague way, seemed nevertheless to
radiate tension. Nor did Foster shut
him up abruptly and toss him out.
Certainly that was his first impulse.

He remembered Potterley well
enough. Potterley had approached
him at that tea (which had been a
grizzly affair). The fellow had
spoken two sentences to him, stiffly,
somehow glassy-eyed, had then come
to himself with a visible start and
hurried off.

It had amused Foster at the time,
but now —

Potterley might have been delib-
erately trying to make his acquaint-
ance, or rather, to impress his own
personality on Foster as that of a
queer sort of duck, eccentric but
harmless. He might now be probing
Foster’s views, searching for unset-

tling opinions. Surely, they ought to
have done so before granting him
his appointment. Still —

Potterley might be serious, might
honestly not realize what he was
doing. Or he might realize quite well
what he was doing; he might be
nothing more or less than a danger-
ous rascal.

Foster mumbled, "Well, now — ”
to gain time, and fished out a pack-
age of cigarettes, intending to offer
one to Potterley and to light it and
one for himself very slowly.

But Potterley said at once, "Please,
Dr. Foster. No cigarettes.”

Foster looked startled. "I’m sorry,
sir.”

"No. The regrets are mine. I can-
not stand the odor. An idiosyncrasy.
I’m sorry.”

He was positively pale. Foster put
away the cigarettes.

Foster, feeling the absence of the
cigarette, took the easy way out. "I’m
flattered that you ask my advice and
all that, Dr. Potterley, but I’m not a
neutrinics man. I can’t very well do
anything professional in that direc-
tion. Even stating an opinion would
be out of line, and, frankly, I’d
prefer that you didn’t go into any
particulars.”

The historian’s prim face set hard.
"What do you mean, you’re not a
neutrinics man? You’re not anything
yet. You haven’t received any grant,
have you?”

"This is only my first semester.”

"I know that. I imagine you have-
n’t even applied for any grant yet.”

Foster half-smiled. In three months

THE DEAD PAST

at the University, he had not suc-
ceeded in putting his initial requests
for research grants into good enough
shape to pass on to a professional
science writer, let alone to the Re-
search Commission.

(His Department Head, fortu-
nately, took it quite well. "Take your
time now, Foster,” he said, "and
get your thoughts well-organized.
Make sure you know your path and
where it will lead, for once you re-
ceive a grant, your specialization will
be formally recognized and, for bet-
ter or for worse, it will be yours for
the rest of your career.” The advice
was trite enough, but triteness has
often the merit of truth, and Foster
recognized that.)

Foster said, "By education and
inclination, Dr. Potterley, I’m a hy-
peroptics man with a gravities minor.
It's how I described myself in apply-
ing for this position. It may not be
my official specialization yet, but it’s
going to be. It can’t be anything
else. As for neutrinics, I never even
studied the subject.”

"Why not?” demanded Potterley
at once.

Foster stared. It was the kind of
rude curiosity about another man’s
professional status that was always
irritating. He said, with the edge of
his own politeness just a trifle
blunted, "A course in neutrinics
wasn’t given at my university.”
"Where did you go?”

"M.J.T.” said Foster, quietly.
"And they don’t teach neutrinics?”
"No, they don’t.” Foster felt him-
self flush and was moved to a de-

fense. "It’s a highly specialized sub-
ject with no great value. Chronos-
copy, perhaps, has some value, but
it is the only practical application
and that’s a dead end.”

The historian stared at him earn-
estly. "Tell me this: Do you know
where I can find a neutrinics man?”

"No, I don’t,” said Foster, blunt-

] y-

"Well, then, do you know a
school which teaches neutrinics?”

"No, I don’t.”

Potterley smiled tightly and with-
out humor.

Foster resented that smile, found
he detected insult in it, and grew
sufficiently annoyed to say, "I would
like to point out, sir, that you’re
stepping out of line.”

"What?”

"I’m saying that as an historian,
your interest in any sort of physics,
your professional interest, is — ” He
paused, unable to bring himself
quite to say the word.

"Unethical?”

"That’s the word, Dr. Potterley.”

"My researches have driven me
to it,” said Potterley in an intense
whisper.

"The Research Commission is the
place to go. If they permit — ”

"I have gone to them and have
received no satisfaction.”

"Then obviously you must aban-
don this.” Foster knew he was
sounding stuffily virtuous, but he
wasn’t going to let this man lure
him into an expression of intellectual

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

anarchy. It was too early in his
career to take stupid risks.

Apparently, though, the remark
had its effect on Potterley. Without
any warning, the man exploded into
a rapid-fire verbal storm of irrespon-
sibility.

Scholars, he said, could be free
only if they could freely follow their
own free-swinging curiosity. Re-
search, he said, forced into a pre-
designed pattern by the powers that
held the purse-strings became slav-
ish and had to stagnate. No man,
he said, had the right to dictate the
intellectual interests of another.

Foster listened to all of it with
disbelief. None of it was strange to
him. He had heard college boys talk
so in order to shock their professors
and he had once or twice amused
himself in that fashion, too. Any-
one who studied the history of sci-
ence knew that many men had once
thought so.

Yet it seemed strange to Foster,
almost against nature, that a modern
man of science could advance such
nonsense. No one would advocate
running a factory by allowing each
individual worker to do whatever
pleased him at the moment, or of
running a ship according to the casu-
al and conflicting notions of each
individual crewman. It would be
taken for granted that some sort of
centralized supervisory agency must
exist in each case. Why should di-
rection and order benefit a factory
and a ship but not scientific re-
search ?

People might say that the human

mind was somehow qualitatively
different from a ship or factory but
the history of intellectual endeavor
proved the opposite.

When science was young and the
intricacies of all or most of the
known was within the grasp of an
individual mind, there w'as no need
for direction, perhaps. Blind wan-
dering over the uncharted tracts of
ignorance could lead to wonderful
finds by accident.

But as knowledge grew, more and
more data had to be absorbed before
worthwhile journeys into ignorance
could be organized. Men had to spe-
cialize. The researcher needed the
resources of a library he himself
could not gather, then of instruments
he himself could not afford. . More
and more, the individual researcher
gave way to the research-team and
the research-institution.

The funds necessary for research
grew' greater as tools grew' more
numerous. What college W'as so
small today as not to require at least
one nuclear micro-reactor and at
least one three-stage computer?

Centuries before, private individ-
uals could no longer subsidize re-
search. By 1940, only the govern-
ment, large industries, and large uni-
versities or research institutions could
properly subsidize basic research.

By I960, even the largest univer-
sities depended entirely upon gov-
ernment grants, while research insti-
tutions could not exist without tax
concessions and public subscriptions.
By 2000, the industrial combines
had become a branch of the world

THE DEAD PAST

government and thereafter, the fi-
nancing of research and, therefore,
its direction, naturally became cen-
tralized under a department of the
government.

It all worked itself out naturally
and well. Every branch of science
was fitted neatly to the needs of the
public, and the various branches of
science were co-ordinated decently.
The material advance of the last
half-century was argument enough
for the fact that science was not
falling into stagnation.

Foster tried to say a very little of
this and was waved aside impatiently
by Potterley who said, “You are
parroting official propaganda. You’re
sitting in the middle of an example
that’s squarely against the official
view. Can you believe that?”
“Frankly, no.”

"Well, why do you say time-view-
ing is a dead end? Why is neutrinics
unimportant? You say it is. You say
it categorically. Yet you’ve never
studied it: You claim complete igno-
rance of the subject. It’s not even
given in your school—”

“Isn’t the mere fact that it isn’t
given proof enough?”

"Oh, I see. It’s not given because
it’s unimportant. And it’s unimpor-
tant because it’s not given. Are you
satisfied with that reasoning?”

Foster felt a growing confusion.
"It’s in the books.”

"That’s all. The books say neu-
trinics is unimportant. Your profes-
sors tell you so because they read it
in the books. The books say so be-

cause professors write them. Who
says it from personal experience and
knowledge? Who does research in
it? Do you know of anyone?”

Foster said, "I don't see that we’re
getting anywhere, Dr. Potterley. I
have work to do — ”

"One minute. I just want you to
try this on. See how it sounds to you.
I say the government is actively sup-
pressing basic research in neutrinics
and chronoscopy. They’re even sup-
pressing application of chronos-
copy.”

“Oh, no.”

“Why not? They could do it.
There’s your centrally directed re-
search. If they refuse grants for re-
search in any portion of science, that
portion dies. They’ve killed neutrin-
ics. They can do it and have done
it.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know why. I want you
to find out. I’d do it myself if I
knew enough. I came to you because
you’re a young fellow with a brand-
new education. Have your intellectu-
al arteries hardened already? Is there
no Curiosity in you? Don’t you want
to know ? Don’t you want answers ?”

The historian was peering intent-
ly into Foster’s face. Their noses
were only inches apart and Foster
was so lost that he did not think to
draw back.

He should, by rights, have or-
dered Potterley out. If necessary, he
should have thrown Potterley out.

It was not respect for age and
position that stopped him. It was
certainly not that Potterley’s argu-

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

merits had convinced him. Rather,
it was a small point of college pride.

Why didn't M.I.T. give a course
in neutrinics? For that matter, now
that he came to think of it, he
doubted that there was a single book
on neutrinics in the library. He could
never recall having seen one.

He stopped to think about that.

And that was ruin.

Caroline Potterley had once been
an attractive woman. There were
occasions, such as dinners or Uni-
versity functions, when by consider-
able effort, remnants of the attrac-
tion could be salvaged.

On ordinary occasions, she sagged.
It was the word she applied to her-
self in moments of self-abhorrence.
She had grown plumper with the
years, but the flaccidity about her
was not a matter of fat, entirely. It
was as though her muscles had given
up and grown limp so that she
shuffled when she walked while her
eyes grew baggy and her cheeks
jowly. Even her graying hair seem-
ed tired rather than merely stringy.
Its straightness seemed to be the re-
sult of a supine surrender to gravity,
nothing else.

Caroline Potterley looked at her-
self in the mirror and admitted this
was one of her bad days. She knew
the reason, too.

It had been the dream of Laurel.
The strange one, with Laurel grown
up. She had been wretched ever
since.

Still, she was sorry she had men-
tioned it to Arnold. He didn’t say

THE DEAD PAST

anything; he never did, any more;
but it was bad for him. He was
particularly withdrawn for days
afterward. It might have been that
he was getting ready for that impor-
tant conference with the big govern-
ment official — he kept saying he ex-
pected no success — but it might also
have been her dream.

It was better in the old days when
he would cry sharply at her, "Let
the dead past go, Caroline ! Talk
won’t bring her back, and dreams
won’t either.”

It had been bad for both of them.
Horribly bad. She had been away
from home that night and had lived
in guilt ever since. If she had stayed
at home, if she had not gone on an
unnecessary shopping expedition,
there would have been two of them
available. One would have succeeded
in saving Laurel.

Poor Arnold had not managed.
Heaven knew he tried. He had near-
ly died himself. He had come out of
the burning house, staggering in
agony, blistered, choking, half-blind-
ed, with the dead Laurel in his arms.

The nightmare of that lived on,
never lifting entirely.

Arnold slowly grew a shell about
himself afterward. He cultivated a
low-voiced mildness through which
nothing broke, no lightning struck.
He grew puritanical and even aban-
doned his minor vices, his cigarettes,
his penchant for an occasional pro-
fane exclamation. He obtained his
grant for the preparation of a hew
history of Carthage and subordinated
everything to that.

She tried to help him. She hunted
up his references, typed his notes and
microfilmed them. Then that ended
suddenly.

She ran from the desk suddenly
one evening, reaching the bathroom
in bare time and retching abomina-
bly. Her husband followed her in
confusion and concern.

"Caroline, what’s wrong?”

It took a drop of brandy to bring
her around. She said, "Is it true?
What they did ?”

"Who did?”

"The Carthaginians.”

He stared at her and she got it
out by indirection. She couldn't say
it right out.

The Carthaginians, it seemed,
worshiped Moloch, in the form of
a hollow, brazen idol with a furnace
in its belly. At times of national
crisis, the priests and the people
gathered and infants, after the prop-
er ceremonies and invocations, were
dextrously hurled, alive, into the
flames.

They were given sweetmeats just
before the crucial moment, in order
that the efficacy of the sacrifice not
be ruined by displeasing cries of
panic. The drums rolled just after
the moment, to drown out the few
seconds of infant shrieking. The
parents were present, presumably
gratified, for the sacrifice was pleas-
ing to the gods —

Arnold Potterley frowned darkly.
Vicious lies, he told her, on the part
of Carthage’s enemies. He should
have warned her. After all, such
propagandists lies were not uncom-

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

mon. According to the Greeks, the
ancient Hebrews worshiped an ass’
head in their Holy of Holies. Ac-
cording to the Romans, the primitive
Christians were haters of all men
who sacrificed pagan children in the
catacombs.

"Then they didn’t do it?” asked
Caroline.

"I’m sure they didn’t. The primi-
tive Phoenicians may have. Human
sacrifice is commonplace in primitive
cultures. But Carthage in her great
days was not a primitive culture.
Human sacrifice often gives way to
symbolic actions such as circumci-
sion. The Greeks and Romans might
have mistaken some Carthaginian
symbolism for the original full rite,
either out of ignorance or out of
malice.”

"Are you sure?”

"I can’t be sure yet, Caroline, but
when I’ve got enough evidence, I'll
apply, for permission to use chronos-
copy, which will settle the matter
once and for all."

"Chronoscopy?”

"Time-viewing. We can focus on
ancient Carthage at some time of
crisis, the landing of Scipio Afri-
canus in 202 B.C., for instance, and
see with our own eyes exactly what
happens. And you’ll see, I’ll be
right.”

He patted her and smiled encour-
agingly, but she dreamed of Laurel
every night for two weeks thereafter
and she never helped him with his
Carthage project again. Nor did he
ever ask her to.

But now she was bracing herself
for his coming. He had called her
after arriving back in town, told her
he had seen the government man
and that it had gone as expected.
That meant failure and yet the little
telltale signs of depression had been
absent from his voice and his fea-
tures had appeared quite composed
in the teleview. He had another
errand to take care of, he said, be-
fore coming home.

It meant he would be late, but
that didn’t matter. Neither one of
them was particular about eating
hours or cared when packages were
taken out of the freezer or even
which packages or when the self-
warming mechanism was activated.

When he did arrive, he surprised
her. There was nothing untoward
about him in any obvious way. He
kissed her dutifully and smiled, took
off his hat and asked if all had been
well while he was gone. It was all
almost perfectly normal. Almost.

She had learned to detect small
things, though, and his pace in all
this was a trifle hurried. Enough to
show her accustomed eye that he
was under tension.

She said, "Has something happen-
ed ?”

He said, "We’re going to have a
dinner guest night after next, Caro-
line. You don’t mind?”

"Well, no. Is it anyone I know?”

"No. A young instructor. A new-
comer. I’ve spoken to him.” He
suddenly whirled toward her and
seized her arms at the elbow, held
them a moment, then dropped them

T11E DEAD PAST

in confusion as though disconcerted
at having shown emotion.

He said, "I almost didn't get
through to him. Imagine that. Ter-
rible, terrible, the way we have all
bent to the yoke; the affection we
have for the harness about us.”
Mrs. Potterley wasn't sure she
understood, but for a year she had
been watching him grow quietly
more rebellious; little by little more
daring in his. criticism of the govern-
ment. She said, "You haven’t spoken
foolishly to him, have you?”

"What do you mean, foolishly?
He’ll be doing some neutrinics for
me.”

"Neutrinics” was trisyllabic non-
sense to Mrs. Potterley, but she
knew it had nothing to do with
history. She said, faintly, "Arnold,
I don't like you to do that. You’ll
lose your position. It’s — ”

"It’s intellectual anarchy, my
dear,” he said. "That’s the phrase
you want. Very well. I am an anarch-
ist. If the government will not allow
me to push my researches, I will
push them on my own. And when
I show the way, others will follow.
And if they don’t, it makes no differ-
ence. It’s Carthage that counts and
human knowledge, not you and I.”
"But you don’t know this young
man. What if he is an agent for
the '-Commissioner of Research?”
"Not likely and I’ll take that
chance," He made a fist of his right
hand and rubbed it gently against
the palm of his left. "He’s on my
side now. I’m sure of it. He can’t
help but be. I can recognize intel-

lectual curiosity when I see it in a
man’s eyes and face and attitude and
it’s a fatal disease for a tame scien-
tist. Even today it takes time to beat
it out of a man and the young ones
are vulnerable. Oh, why stop at any-
thing? Why not build our own
chronoscope and tell the government
to go to — ”

He stopped abruptly, shook his
head and turned away.

"I hope everything will be all
right,” said Mrs. Potterley, feeling
helplessly certain that everything
would not be, and frightened, in
advance, for her husband’s profes-
sorial status and the security of their
old age.

It was she alone, of them all, who
had a violent presentiment of trou-
ble. Quite the wrong trouble, of
course.

Jonas Foster was nearly half an
hour late in arriving at the Potter-
ley’s off-campus house. Up to that
very evening, he had not quite de-
cided he would go. Then, at the
last moment, he found he could not
bring himself to commit the social
enormity of breaking a dinner ap-
pointment an hour before the ap-
pointed time. That, and the nagging
of curiosity.

The dinner itself passed intermi-
nably. Foster ate without appetite.
Mrs. Potterley sat in distant absent-
mindedness, emerging out of it only
once to ask if he were married and
to make a depreciating sound at the
news that he was not. Dr. Potterley,
himself, asked neutrally after his

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

professional history and nodded his
head primly.

It was as staid, stodgy — boring,
actually — as anything could be.

Foster thought: He seems so

harmless.

Foster had spent the last two days
reading up on Dr. Potterley. Very
casually, of course, almost sneakily.
He wasn't particularly anxious to be
seen in the Social Science Library.
To be sure, history was one of those
borderline affairs and historical
works were frequently read for
amusement or edification by the gen-
eral public.

Still, a physicist wasn’t quite the
"general public." Let Foster take to
reading histories and he would be
considered queer, sure as relativity,
and after a while the head of the
department would wonder if his new
instructor were really "the man for
the job.”

So he had been cautious. He sat
in the more secluded alcoves and
kept his head bent when he slipped
in and out at odd hours.

Dr. Potterley, it turned out, had
written three books and some dozen
articles on the ancient Mediterranean
worlds, and the later articles — all in
'Historical Reviews ’ — had all dealt
with pre-Roman Carthage from a
sympathetic viewpoint.

That, at least, checked with Pot-
terley’s story and had soothed Fos-
ter's suspicions somewhat. And yet
Foster felt that it would have been
much wiser, much safer, to have
scotched the matter at the beginning.

A scientist shouldn't be too curi-

ous, he thought in bitter dissatisfac-
tion with himself. It’s a dangerous
trait.

After dinner, he was ushered into
Potterley's study and he was brought
up sharply at the threshold. The
walls were simply lined with books.

Not merely films. There were
films, of course, but these were far
outnumbered by the books — print on
paper. He wouldn’t have thought so
many books would exist in usable
condition.

That bothered Foster. Why should
anyone want to keep so many books
at home? Surely all were available
in the university library, or, at the
very worst, at the Library of Con-
gress, if one wished to take the
minor trouble of checking out a
microfilm.

There was an element of secrecy
involved in a home library. It
breathed of intellectual anarchy.
That last thought, oddly, calmed
Foster. He would rather Potterley
be an authentic anarchist than a
play-acting agent provocateur.

And now the hours began to pass
quickly and astonishingly.

"You see,” Potterley said, in a
clear, unflurried voice, “it was a
matter of finding, if possible, anyone
who had ever used chronoscopy in
his work. Naturally, I couldn’t ask
baldly, since that would be unau-
thorized research.”

"Yes,” said Foster, dryly. He was
a little surprised such a small con-
sideration would stop the man.

”1 used indirect methods — ”

He had. Foster was amazed at the

THE DEAD PAST

volume of correspondence dealing
with small disputed points of ancient
Mediterranean culture which some-
how managed to elicit the casual
remark over and over again: "Of
course, having never made use of
chronoscopy — ” or "Pending ap-
proval of my request for chrono-
scopic data, which appears unlikely
at the moment — ”

"Now these aren’t blind question-
ings,” said Potterley. "There’s a
monthly booklet put out by the In-
stitute for Chronoscopy in which
items concerning the past as deter-
mined by time-viewing are printed.
Just one or two items.

"What impressed me first was the
triviality of most of the items, their
insipidity. Why should such re-
searches get priority over my work?
So I wrote to people who would be
most likely to do research in the
directions described in the booklet.
Uniformly, as I have shown you,
they did not make use of the chrono-
scope. Now let’s go over it point by
point.”

At last Foster, his head swimming
with Potterley’s meticulously gath-
ered details, asked, "But why?”

"I don't know why," said Potter-
ley, "but I have a theory. The origi-
nal invention of the chronoscope was
by Sterbinski — you see, I know that
much — and it was well-publicized.
But then the government took over
the instrument and decided to sup-
press further research in the matter
or any use of the machine. But then,
people might be curious as to why

it wasn’t being used. Curiosity is
such a vice, Dr. Foster.”

Yes, agreed the physicist to him-
self.

"Imagine the effectiveness, then,”
Potterley went on, "of pretending
that the chronoscope was being used.
It would then be not a mystery, but
a commonplace. It would no longer
be a fitting object for legitimate
curiosity nor an attractive one for
illicit curiosity."

"You were curious,” pointed out
Foster.

Potterley looked a trifle restless.
"It was different in my case,” he
said angrily. "I have something that
must be done, and 1 wouldn't submit
to the ridiculous way in which they
kept putting me off.”

A bit paranoid, too, thought Fos-
ter, gloomily.

Yet he had ended up with some-
thing, paranoid or not. Foster could
no longer deny that something pe-
culiar was going on in the matter
of neutrinics.

But what was Potterley after?
That still bothered Foster. If Potter-
ley didn’t intend this as a test of
Foster’s ethics, what did he want?

Foster put it to himself logically.
If an intellectual anarchist with a
touch of paranoia wanted to use a
chronoscope and was convinced that
the powers-that-be were deliberate-
ly standing in his way, what would
he do?

Supposing it were I, he thought.
What would I do?

He said slowly, "Maybe the
chronoscope doesn’t exist at all?”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

Potterley started. There was al-
most a crack in his general calmness.
For an instant, Foster found himself
catching a glimpse of something not
at all calm.

But the historian kept his balance
and said. "Oh, no, there must be a
chronoscope.’’

"Wiry? Have you seen it? Have
1 ? Maybe that’s the explanation of
everything. Maybe they’re not delib-
erately holding out on a chronoscope
they’ve got. Maybe they haven’t got
it in the first place.”

"But Sterbinski lived. He built a
chronoscope. That much is a fact.”

"The books say so,” said Foster,
coldly.

"Now listen,” Potterley actually
reached over and snatched at Foster’s
jacket sleeve. "I need the chrono-
scope. I must have it. Don’t tell me
it doesn’t exist. What we’re going
to do is find out enough about neu-
trinics to be able to — ”

Potterley drew himself up short.

Foster drew his sleeve away. He
needed no ending to that sentence.
1 le supplied it himself. He said,
"Build one of our own?”

Potterley looked sour as though
he would rather not have said it
point-blank. Nevertheless, he said,
"Why not?”

"Because that’s out of the ques-
tion,” said Foster. "If what I’ve read
is correct, then it took Sterbinski
twenty years to build his machine
and several millions in composite
grants. Do you think you and I can
duplicate that illegally. Suppose we
had the time, which we haven’t, and

suppose I could learn enough out of
books, which I doubt, where would
we get the money and equipment?
The chronoscope is supposed to fill
a five-story building, for Heaven’s
sake.”

"Then you won’t help me?”

"Well, I'll tell you what. I have
one way in which I may be able
to find out something — ”

"What is that?” asked Potterley
at once.

"Never mind. That’s not impor-
tant. But I may be able to find out
enough to tell you w'hether the gov-
ernment is deliberately suppressing
research by chronoscope. I may con-
firm the evidence you already have
or I may be able to prove that your
evidence is misleading. I don’t know
what good it will do you in either
case, but it’s as far as I can go. It’s
my limit.”

Potterley watched the young man
go finally. He was angry with him-
self. Why had he allow'ed himself
to grow so careless as to permit the
fellow to guess that he was thinking
in terms of a chronoscope of his
own? That was premature.

But then why did the young fool
have to suppose that a chronoscope
might not exist at all?

It bad to exist. It bad to. What
was the use of saying it didn’t?

And why couldn’t a second one be
built? Science had advanced in the
fifty years since Sterbinski. All that
was needed was knowledge.

Let the youngster gather knowl-
edge. Let him think a small gather-

THE DEAD PAST

ing would be his limit. Having
taken the path to anarchy, there
would be no limit. If the boy were
not driven onward by something in
himself, the first steps would be
error enough to force the rest. Pot-
terley was quite certain he would
not hesitate to use blackmail.

Potterley waved a last good-by and
looked up. It was beginning to rain.

Certainly! Blackmail if necessary,
but he would not be stopped.

Foster steered his car across the
bleak outskirts of town and scarcely
noticed the rain.

He was a fool, he told himself,
but he couldn’t leave things as they
were. He had to know. He damned
his streak of undisciplined curiosity,
but he had to know.

But he would go no further than
Uncle Ralph. He swore mightily to
himself that it would stop there. In
that way, there would be no evidence
against him, no real evidence. Unde
Ralph would be discreet.

In a way, he was secretly ashamed
of Uncle Ralph. He hadn’t men-
tioned him to Potterley partly out
of caution and partly because he did
not wish to witness the lifted eye-
brow, the inevitable half-smile. Pro-
fessional science-writers, however
useful, were a little outside the pale,
fit only for patronizing contempt.
The fact that, as a class, they made
more money than did research sci-
entists, only made matters worse, of
course.

Still, there were times when a sci-
ence-writer in the family could be

a convenience. Not being really edu-
cated, they did not have to special-
ize. Consequently, a good science-
writer knew practically everything.
And Uncle Ralph was one of the
best.

Ralph Nimmo had no college de-
gree and was rather proud of it. "A
degree,” he once said to Jonas Foster,
when both were considerably young-
er, "is a first step down a ruinous
highway. You don’t want to waste
one degree so you go on to graduate
work and doctoral research. You end
up a thoroughgoing ignoramus on
everything in the world except for
one subdivisional sliver of nothing.

"On the other hand, if you guard
your mind carefully and keep it
blank of any clutter of information
till maturity is reached, filling it only
with intelligence and training it only
in clear thinking, you then have a
powerful instrument at your disposal
and you can become a science-
writer.”

Nimmo received his first assign-
ment at the age of twenty-five, after
he had completed his apprenticeship
and been out in the field for less
than three months. It came in the
shape of a clotted manuscript whose
language would impart no glimmer-
ing of understanding to any reader,
however qualified, without careful
study and some inspired guesswork.
Nimmo took it apart and put it to-
gether again — after five long and
exasperating interviews with the au-
thors, who were biophysicists —
making the language taut and mean-

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

ingful and smoothing the style to
a pleasant gloss.

"Why not?” he would say toler-
antly to his nephew, who countered
his strictures on degrees by berating
him with his readiness to hang on
the fringes of science. "The fringe
is important. Your scientists can't
write. Why should they be expected
to. They aren’t expected to be grand-
masters at chess or virtuosos at the
violin, so why expect them to know
how to put words together? Why
not leave that for specialists, too?

"Good Lord, Jonas, read your
literature of a hundred years ago.

Discount the fact that the science is
out of date and that some of the
expressions are old-fashioned. Just
try to read it and make sense out of
it. It’s just jaw-cracking, amateurish.
Papers are published uselessly; whole
articles which are either non-signifi-
cant, non-comprehensiblc or both.”
"But science-writers don’t get
recognition, Uncle Ralph,” protested
the young Foster, who was getting
ready to start his college career and
was rather starry-eyed about it. "You
could be a terrific researcher.”

"I get recognition,” said Nimmo.
"Don’t think for a minute I don’t.

TIIF, DEAD PAST

Sure, a biochemist or a strato-mete-
orologist won't give me the time of
day, but they pay me well enough,
just find out what happens when
some first-class chemist finds the
Commission has cut his year’s allow-
ance for science-writing. He’ll fight
harder for enough funds to afford
me, or someone like me, than to
get a recording ionograph.”

He grinned broadly and Foster
grinned back. Actually, he was
proud as well as ashamed of his
paunchy, round-faced, stub-fingered
uncle, whose vanity made him brush
his fringe of hair futilely over the
desert on his pate and made him
dress like an unmade haystack be-
cause such negligence was his trade-
mark.

And now Foster entered his
uncle’s cluttered apartment in no
mood at all for grinning. He was
nine years older now' and so was
Uncle Ralph. For nine more years,
papers in every branch of science
had come to Ralph Nimmo for pol-
ishing and a little of each had crept
into his capacious mind.

Nimmo was eating seedless
grapes, popping them into his mouth
one at a time. He tossed a bunch to
Foster, who caught them by a hair,
then bent to retrieve individual
grapes that had torn loose and fallen
to the floor.

“Let them be. Don’t bother,” said
Nimmo, carelessly. "Someone comes
in here to clean once a week. What’s
up? Having trouble with your grant
application write-up?”

"f haven’t really got into that
yet?”

“You haven’t? Get a move on,
boy. Are you waiting for me to offer
to do the final arrangement?”

"I couldn’t afford you, uncle.”
"Aw, come on. It’s all in the
family. Grant me all popular pub-
lication rights and no cash need
change hands.”

Foster nodded. “If you’re serious,
it’s a deal.”

“It’s a deal.”

It was a gamble, of course, but
Foster knew enough of Nimmo’s
science-writing to realize it could pay
off. Some dramatic discovery of pub-
lic interest on primitive man or on
a new' surgical technique, or on any
branch of spationautics could mean
a very cash-attracting article in any
ol the mass media of communica-
tion.

It was Nimmo, for instance, who
had written up, for scientific con-
sumption, the series of papers by
Bryce and co-workers that elucidated
the fine structure of two cancer
viruses, for which job he asked for
the picayune payment of fifteen hun-
dred dollars, provided popular pub-
lication rights were included. He
then wrote up, exclusively, the same
work in semidramatic form for use
in trimensional video for a twenty-
thousand-dollar advance plus rental
royalties that were still coming in
after five years.

Foster said bluntly, “What do you
know about neutrinics, uncle?”
“Neutrinics?” Nimmo’s small
eyes looked surprised. "Are you

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

working in that? I thought it was
pseudo-gravitic optics.”

"It is p.g.o. I just happen to be
asking about neutrinics?”

"That’s a devil of a thing to be
doing. You’re stepping out of line.
You know that, don’t you?”

"I don’t expect you to call the
Commission because I’m a little
curious about things.”

"Maybe I should before you get
into trouble. Curiosity is an occupa-
tional danger with scientists. I've
watched it work. One of them will
be moving quietly along on a prob-
lem, then curiosity leads him up a
strange creek. Next thing you know
they’ve done so little on their prop-
er problem, they can't justify for a
project renewal. I've seen more — ■”
"All I want to know,” said Foster,
patiently, "is what’s been passing
through your hands lately on neu-
trinics.”

Nimmo leaned back, chewing at a
grape thoughtfully, "Nothing. Noth-
ing ever. I don’t recall ever getting
a paper on neutrinics.”

"What!” Foster was openly as-
tonished. "Then who does get the
work?”

"Now that you ask,” said Nimmo.
”1 don’t know. Don’t recall anyone
talking about it at the annual con-
ventions. I don’t think much work
is being done there.”

"Why not?”

"Hey, there, don’t bark. I’m not
doing anything. My guess would
be —

Foster was exasperated. "Don't
you know?”

'Til tell you what I know about
neutrinics. It concerns the applica-
tions of neutrino movements and the
forces involved — ”

"Sure. Sure. Just as electronics
deals with the applications of elec-
tron movements and the forces in-
volved and pseudo-gravities deals
with the applications of artificial
gravitational fields. I didn’t come to
you for that. Is that all you
know ?”

"And,” said Nimmo with equa-
nimity, "neutrinics is the basis of
time-viewing and that i.r all I know.”

Foster slouched back in his chair
and massaged one lean cheek with
great intensity. He felt angrily dis-
satisfied. Without formulating it ex-
plicitly in his own mind, he had
felt sure, somehow, that Nimmo
would come up with some late re-
ports, bring up interesting facets of
modern neutrinics, send him back
to Potterley able to say that the
elderly historian was mistaken, that
his data was misleading, his deduc-
tion mistaken.

Then he could have returned to
his proper work.

But now —

He told himself angrily: So they
are not doing much work in the
field. Does that make it deliberate
suppression? What if neutrinics is
a sterile discipline? Maybe it is. I
don’t know. Potterley doesn’t. Why
waste the intellectual resources of
humanity on nothing? Or the work
might be secret for some legitimate
reason. It might be —

The trouble was, he had to know.

THE DEAD EAST

He couldn’t leave things as they
were now. He couldn’t!

He said, "Is there a text on neu-
trinics, Uncle Ralph? I mean a clear
and simple one? An elementary
one?”

Nimmo thought, his plump cheeks
puffing out with a series of sighs.
"You ask the damnedest questions.
The only one I ever heard of was
Sterbinski and somebody. I've never
seen it, but I viewed something
about it once. Sterbinski and La-
Marr, that's it.”

"Is that the Sterbinski who in-
vented the chronoscope?”

"I think so. Proves the book ought
to be good.”

"Is there a recent edition? Ster-
binski died thirty years ago.”

Nimmo shrugged and said noth-
ing.

"Can you find out?”

They sat in silence for a moment,
while Nimmo shifted his bulk to the
creaking tune of the chair he sat on.
Then the science-writer said, "Are
you going to tell me what this is
all about?”

"I can't. Will you help me any-
way, Uncle Ralph? Will you get
me a copy of the text?”

"Well, you’ve taught me all I
know on pseudo-gravities. I should
be grateful. Tell you what — I’ll help
you on one condition.”

"Which is?”

The older man was suddenly very
grave. "That you be careful, Jonas.
You're obviously way out of line
whatever you're doing. Don’t blow
up your career just because you’re

curious about something you haven’t
been assigned to and which is none
of your business. Understand?”
Foster nodded, but he hardly
heard. He was thinking furiously.

A full week later, Ralph Nimmo
eased his rotund figure into Jonas
Foster's on-campus two-room com-
bination and said, in a hoarse whis-
per, 'Tve got something.”

"What?” Foster was immediate-
ly eager.

"A copy of Sterbinski and La-
Marr.” He produced it, or rather
a corner of it, from his ample top-
coat.

Foster almost automatically eyed
door and windows to make sure they
were closed and shaded respectively,
then held out his hand.

The film-case was flaking with age
and when he cracked it, the film was
faded and growing brittle. He said,
sharply, "Is this all?”

"Gratitude, my boy, gratitude!”
Nimmo sat down with a grunt, and
reached into a pocket for an apple.
"Oh, I’m grateful, but it’s so old."
"And lucky to get it at that. I
tried to get a film-run from the
Congressional Library. No go. The
book was restricted.”

"Then how did you get this?”
"Stole it.” He was biting crunch-
ingly around the core. "New York
Public.”

"What?”

"Simple enough. I had access to
the stacks, naturally. So I stepped
over a chained railing when no one
was around, dug this up, and walked

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

out with it. They’re very trusting out
there. Meanwhile, they won’t miss
it in years. Only you’d better not let
anyone see it on you, nephew.”

Foster stared at the film as though
it were literally hot.

Nimmo discarded the core and
reached for a second apple. "Funny
thing, now. There’s nothing more
recent in the whole field of neu-
trinics. Not a monograph, not a
paper, not a progress note. Nothing
since the chronoscope.”

"Uh huh,” said Foster absently.

Foster worked evenings in the
Potterley home. He could not trust
his own on-campus rooms for the
purpose. The evening work grew
more real to him than his own
grant applications. Sometimes he
worried about it but then that stop-
ped, too.

His work consisted, at first, sim-
ply in viewing and re-viewing the
text-film. Later it consisted in think-
ing (sometimes while a section of
the book ran itself off through the
pocket-projector, disregarded).

Sometimes Potterley would come
down to watch, to sit with prim,
eager eyes, as though he expected
thought-processes to solidify and be-
come visible in all their convolutions.
He interfered in only two ways. He
did not allow Foster to smoke and
sometimes he talked.

It wasn’t conversation talk, never
that. Rather it was a low-voiced
monologue with which, it seemed,
he scarcely expected to command
attention. It was much more as

THE DEAD PAST

though he were relieving a pressure
within himself.

Carthage! Always Carthage!

Carthage, the New York of the
ancient Mediterranean. Carthage,
commercial empire and queen of the
seas. Carthage, all that Syracuse and
Alexandria pretended to be. Car-
thage, maligned by her enemies and
inarticulate in her own defense.

She had been defeated once by
Rome and then driven out of Sicily
and Sardinia but came back to more
than recoup her losses by new do-
minions in Spain, and raised up
Hannibal to give the Romans sixteen
years of terror.

In the end, she lost again a sec-
ond time, reconciled herself to fate
and built again with broken tools
a limping life in shrunken territory,
succeeding so well that jealous Rome
deliberately forced a third war. And
then Carthage, with nothing but bare
hands and tenacity, built weapons
and forced Rome into a two-year-war
that ended only with complete de-
struction of the city, the inhabitants
throwing themselves into their
flaming houses rather than surrender.

"Could people fight so for a city
and a way of life as bad as the
ancient writers painted it? Hannibal
was a better general than any Roman
and his soldiers were absolutely
faithful to him. Even his bitterest
enemies praised him. There was a
Carthaginian. It is fashionable to
say that he was an atypical Carthagin-
ian, better than the others, a dia-
mond placed in garbage. But then
why was he so faithful to Carthage,

even to his death 'after years of exile?
They talk of Moloch — ”

Foster didn’t always listen but
sometimes he couldn’t help himself
and he shuddered and turned sick
at the bloody tale of child sacrifice.

But Potterley went on earnestly,
"just the same, it isn’t true. It’s a
twenty-five hundred year canard
started by the Greeks and Romans.
They had their own slaves, their
crucifixions and torture, their gladia-
torial contests. They weren’t holy.
The Moloch story is what later ages
would have called war propaganda,
the big lie. I can prove it was a lie.

I can prove it and, by heaven, I
will ... I will — ”

He would mumble that promise
over and over again in his earnest-
ness.

Mrs. Potterley visited him also,
but less frequently, usually on Tues-
days and Thursdays when Dr. Pot-
terley himself had an evening course
to take care of and was not present.

She would sit quietly, scarcely
talking, face slack and doughy, eyes
blank, her whole attitude distant
and withdrawn.

The first time, Foster tried, un-
easily, to suggest that she leave.

She said, tunelessly, "Do I dis-
turb you?”

"No, of course not,” lied Foster,
restlessly. "It’s just that . . . that — ”
He couldn’t complete the sentence.

She nodded, as though accepting
an invitation to stay. Then she
opened a cloth bag she had brought
with her and took out a quire of

vitron sheets which she proceeded
to weave together by rapid, delicate
movements of a pair of slender,
tetra-faceted depolarizers, whose
battery-fed wires made her look as
though she were holding a large-
spider.

One evening, she said softly, "My
daughter, Laurel, is your age.”

Foster started, as much at the sud-
den unexpected sound of speech as
at the words. He said, "I didn't
know you had a daughter, Mrs.
Potterley.”

"She died. Years ago.”

The vitron grew under the deft
manipulations into the uneven
shape of some garment Foster could
not yet identify. There was nothing
left for him to do but mutter inane-
ly, "I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Potterley sighed. "I dream
about her often.” She raised her
blue, distant eyes to his.

Foster winced and looked away.

Another evening she asked, pull-
ing at one of the vitron sheets to
loosen its gentle clinging to her
dress, "What is time-viewing any-
way?”

That remark broke into a particu-
larly involved chain of thought and
Foster said, snappishly, "Dr. Potter-
ley can explain.”

"He’s tried to. Oh, my, yes. But
I think he’s a little impatient with
me. He calls it chronoscopy most
of the time. Do you actually see
things in the past, like the trimen-
sionals? Or does it just make little
dot patterns like the computer you
use?”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

Foster stared at his hand com-
puter with distaste. It v orked well
enough but every operation had to
be manually controlled and the an-
swers were obtained in code. Now
if he could use the school computer
— Well, why dream, he felt con-
spicuous enough, as it was, carrying
a hand computer under his arm every
evening as he left his office.

He said, "I’ve never seen the
chronoscope myself, but I'm under
the impression that you actually see
pictures and hear sound.”

"You can hear people talk, too?"
"I think so.” Then, half in des-
peration, "Look here, Mrs. Potter-
ley, this must be awfully dull for
you. I realize you don't like to leave
a guest all to himself, but really,
Mrs. Potterley, you mustn’t feel
compelled—”

"I don’t feel compelled," she said.
"I’m sitting here, waiting.”
"Waiting? For what?”

She said, composedly, "I listened
to you that first evening. The time
you first spoke to Arnold. I listened
at the door.”

He said, "You did?”

"I know I shouldn’t have, but I
was awfully worried about Arnold.
I had a notion he was going to do
something he oughtn’t and I wanted
to hear what. And then when I
heard—” She paused, bending close
over the vitron and peering at it.
"Heard what, Mrs. Potterley.”
"That you wouldn’t build a
chronoscope.”

"Well, of course not.”

”1 thought maybe you might
change your mind.”

Foster glared at her. "D.o you
mean you’re coming down, here
hoping I’ll build a chronqscope,
waiting for me to build one.”

”1 hope you do, Dr. Foster. Oh,
I hope you do.”

It was as though, all at once, a
fuzzy veil had fallen off her face,
leaving all her features clear and
sharp, putting color into her cheeks,
life into her eyes, the vibrations of
something approaching excitement
into her voice.

"Wouldn't it be wonderful,” she
whispered, "to have one. People of
the past could live again. Pharaohs
and kings and jT jus: people. I hope
you build one, Dr. Foster. I really
. . . hope — ”

She choked, it seemed, on the
intensity of her own words and let
the vitron sheets slip off her lap.
She rose and ran up the basement
stairs, while Foster’s eyes followed
her awkwardly fleeing body with
astonishment and distress.

It cut deeper into Foster’s nights
and left him sleepless and painfully
stiff with thought. It was almost a
mental indigestion.

His grant requests went limping
in, finally, to Ralph Nimmo/ He
scarcely had any hope for them. He
thought numbly: They won't be
approved.

If they weren’t, of course, it
would create a scandal in tlx© de-
partment and probably msSm his
appointment at the university would

THE DEAD PAST

not be renewed, come the end of the
academic year.

He scarcely worried. It was the
neutrino, the neutrino, only the
neutrino. Its trail curved and veered
sharply and led him breathlessly
along uncharted pathways that even
Sterbinski and LaMarr did not fol-
low.

He called Nimmo. "Uncle Ralph,
I need a few things. I'm calling
from off the campus.”

Nimrno's face in the video-plate
was jovial, but his voice was sharp.
He said, "What you need is a course
in communication. I'm having a hell
of a time pulling your application
into one intelligible piece. If that’s
what you’re calling about — ”

Foster shook his head impatient-
ly. "That’s not what I’m calling
about. I need these.” He scribbled
quickly on a piece of paper and held
it up before the receiver.

Nimmo yiped. "Hey, how many
tricks do you think I can wangle?”
"You can get them, uncle. You
know you can.”

Nimmo reread the list of items
with silent motions of his plump lips
and looked grave.

"What happens when you put
those things together?” he asked.

Foster shook his head. "You’ll
have exclusive popular publication
rights to whatever turns up, the way
it’s always been. But please don’t
ask any questions now.”

"I can’t do miracles, you know.”
"Do this one. You’ve got to. You
are a science-writer, not a research
man. You don’t have to account for

anything. You’ve got friends and
connections. They can look the other
way, can’t they, to get a break from
you next publication time?”

"Your faith, nephew, is touching.
I’ll try.”

Nimmo succeeded. The material
and equipment were brought over
late one evening in a private touring
car. Nimmo and Foster lugged it
in with the grunting of men unused
to manual labor.

Potterley stood at the entrance of
the basement after Nimmo had left.
He asked, softly, "What’s this for?”

Foster brushed the hair off his
forehead and gently massaged a
sprained wrist. He said, "I want to
conduct a few simple experiments ”

"Really?” The historian’s eyes
glittered with excitement.

Foster felt exploited. He felt as
though he were being led along a
dangerous highway by the pull of
pinching fingers on his nose; as
though he could see the ruin clearly
that lay in wait at the end of the
path, yet walked eagerly and deter-
minedly. Worst of all, he felt the
compelling grip on his nose to be his
own.

It was Potterley who began it,
Potterley who stood there now,
gloating; but the compulsion was
Foster’s own.

Foster said sourly, "I’ll be want-
ing privacy now, Potterley. I can’t
have you and your wife running
down here and annoying me.”

He thought: If that offends him,

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

let him kick me out. Let him put an
end to this.

In his heart, though, he did not
think being evicted would stop any-
thing.

But it did not come to that. Pot-
terley was showing no signs of
offense. His mild gaze was un-
changed. He said, "Of course, Dr.
Foster, of course. All the privacy
you wish.”

Foster watched him go. He was
left still marching along the high-
way, perversely glad of it and hating
himself for being glad.

He took to sleeping over on a
cot in Potterley’s basement and
spending his weekends there entirely.

During that period, preliminary
word came through that his grants
— as doctored by Nimmo — had been
approved. The Department Head
brought the word and congratulated
him.

Foster stared back distantly and
mumbled, "Good. I’m glad” with
so little conviction that the other
frowned and turned away without
another word.

Foster gave the matter no further
thought. It was a minor point, worth
no notice. He was planning some-
thing that really counted, a climactic
test for that evening.

One evening, a second and third
and then, haggard and half beside
himself for excitement, he called in
Potterley.

Potterley came down the stairs and
looked about at the homemade gad-
getry. He said, in his soft voice,

"The electric bills are quite high. I
don’t mind the expense, but the City
may ask questions. Can anything be
done?”

It was a warm evening, but Pot-
terley wore a tight collar and a semi-
jacket. Foster, who was in his under-
shirt, lifted bleary eyes and said,
shakily, "It won’t be for much long-
er, Dr. Potterley. I’ve called you
down to tell you something. A
chronoscope can be built. A small
one, of course, but it can be built.”

Potterley seized the railing. His
body sagged.

He managed a whisper. "Can it
be built here?”

"Here in the basement,” said
Foster, wearily.

"You said — ”

"I know what I said, " cried Fos-
ter, impatiently. "I said it couldn’t
be done. I didn’t know anything
then. Even Sterbinski didn’t know
anything.”

Potterley shook his head. "Are
you sure? You’re not mistaken, Dr.
Foster? I couldn’t endure it if-*-’’

Foster said, "I'm not mistaken.
Damn it, sir, if just theory had been
enough, we could have had a time-
viewer over a hundred years ago,
when the neutrino was first postu-
lated. The trouble was, the original
investigators considered it only a
mysterious particle without mass or
charge that could not be detected.
It was just something to even up the
bookkeeping and save the law of
conservation of mass-energy.”

He wasn’t sure Potterley knew
what he was talking about. He didn’t

THE DEAD PAST

care. He, needed a breather. He had
to get some of this out of his clot-
ting thoughts. And he needed back-
ground for what he would have to
tell Potterley next.

He went on. "It was Sterbinski
who first discovered that the neutrino
broke through the space-time cross-
sectional barrier, that it traveled
through time and that was why it
had remained undetected. It was
Sterbinski who first devised a meth-
od for stopping neutrinos. He in-
vented a neutrino-recorder and
learned how to interpret the pattern
of the neutrino-stream. Naturally,
the stream had been affected and
deflected by all the matter it had
passed through in its passage-
through time, and the deflections
could be analyzed and converted
into the images of the matter that
had done the deflecting. Time-view-
ing was possible. Even air vibrations
could be detected in this way and
converted into sound.”

Potterley was definitely not listen-
ing. He said, "Yes. Yes. But when
can you build a chronoscope?”
Foster said, urgently, "Let me fin-
ish. Everything depends on the meth-
od used to detect and analyze the
neutrino stream. Sterbinski’s method
was difficult and roundabout. It re-
quired mountains of energy. But I've
studied pseudo-gravities, Dr. Potter-
ley, the science of artificial gravita-
tional fields. I’ve specialized in the
behavior of light in such fields. It’s
a new science. Sterbinski knew noth-
ing of it. If he had, he would have
seen — anyone would have — a much

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

better and more efficient method of
detecting neutrinos using a pseudo-
gravitic field. If I had known more
neutrinics to begin with, I would
have seen it at once.”

Potterley brightened a bit. "I
knew it,” he said. "Even if they
stop research in neutrinics there is
no way the government can be sure
that discoveries in other segments
of science won't reflect knowledge
on neutrinics. So much for the value
of centralized direction of science.
I thought this long ago, Dr. Foster,
before you ever came to work here.”
"1 congratulate you on that,” said
Foster, "but there's one thing — ”
"Oh, never mind all this. Answer
me. Please. When can you build a
chronoscope?”

"Pm trying to tell you something,
Dr. Potterley. A chronoscope won't
do you any good.” (This is it, Foster
thought. )

Slowly, Potterley descended the
stairs. He stood, facing Foster,
"What do you mean? Why won’t it
help me?”

"You won’t see Carthage. It’s
what I’ve got to tell you. It’s what
I’ve been leading up to. You can
never see Carthage.”

Potterley shook his head slightly.
"Oh, no, you’re wrong. If you have
the chronoscope, just focus it prop-
erly — •"

"No, Dr. Potterley. It’s not a
question of focus. There are random
factors affecting the neutrino stream,
as they affect all sub-atomic particles.
What we call the uncertainty prin-

ciple. When the stream is recorded
and interpreted, the random factor
comes out as fuzziness, or "noise”
as the communications boys speak of
it. The further back in time you
penetrate, the more pronounced the
fuzziness, the greater the noise. After
a while, the noise drowns out the
picture. Do you understand?”

"More power,” said Potterley in
a dead kind of voice.

"That won’t help. When the
noise blurs out detail, magnifying
detail magnifies the noise, too. You
can’t see anything in a sun-burned
film by enlarging it, can you? Get
this through your head, now. The
physical nature of the universe sets
limits. The random thermal motions
of air molecules sets limits to how
weak a sound can be detected by any
instrument. The length of a light-
wave or of an electron-wave sets
limits to the size of objects that can
be seen by any instrument. It works
that way in chronoscopy, too. You
can only time-view so far.”

"How far? How far?”

Foster took a deep breath., "A
century and a quarter. That’s the
most.”

"But the monthly bulletin the
Commission puts out deals with an-
cient history almost entirely.” The
historian laughed shakily. "You
must be wrong. The government has
data as far back as 3,000 B.C.”

"When did you switch toi believ-
ing them?” demanded Foster, scorn-
fully. "You began this business by
proving they were lying; that no
historian had made use of the

THE DEAD PAST

chronoscope. Don’t you see why
now? No historian, except one inter-
ested in contemporary history, could.
No chronoscope can possibly see
back in time further than 1920 un-
der any conditions.”

"You’re wrong. You don’t know
everything,” said Potterley.

"The truth won’t bend itself to
your convenience either. Face it. The
government’s part in this is to per-
petuate a hoax.”

"Why?”

"I don’t know why.”

Potterley’s snubby nose was
twitching. His eyes were bulging.
He pleaded, "It’s only theory, Dr.
Foster. Build a chronoscope. Build
one and try.”

Foster caught Potterley’s shoul-
ders in a sudden, fierce grip. "Do
you think I haven't? Do you think
1 would tell you this before I had
checked it every way I knew. I have
built one. It’s all around you. Look!”
He ran to the switches at the
power-leads. He flicked them on,
one by one. He turned a resistor,
adjusted other knobs, put out the
cellar lights. "Wait. Let it warm
up.”

There was a small glow near the
center of one wall. Potterley was
gibbering incoherently, but Foster
only cried again, "Look!”

The light sharpened and brighten-
ed, broke up into a light-and-dark
pattern. Men and women ! Fuzzy.
Features blurred. Arms and legs
mere streaks. An old-fashioned
ground-car, unclear but recognizable
as one of the kind that had once used

gasolifle-powered internal-combus-
tion engines, sped by.

Foster said, "Mid-twentieth cen-
tury, somewhere. I can’t hook up an
audio yet so this is soundless. Even-
tually, we can add sound. Anyway,
mid-twentieth is almost as far back
as you can go. Believe me, that’s
the best focusing that can be done.”
Potterley said, "Build a larger
machine, a stronger one. Improve
your circuits.”

"You can’t lick the uncertainty
principle, man, any more than you
can live on the sun. There are physi-
cal limits to what can be done.”
"You’re lying. I won’t believe
you. I — ”

A new voice sounded, raised
shrilly to make itself heard.
"Arnold! Dr. Foster!”

The young -physicist turned at
once. Dr. Potterley froze for a long
moment, then said, without turning,
"What is it, Caroline? Leave us.”
"No!” Mrs. Potterley descended
the stairs. "I heard. I couldn’t help
hearing. Do you have a time-viewer
here, Dr. Foster? Here in the base-
ment?”

"Yes, I do, Mrs. Potterley. A kind
of time-viewer. Not a good one. I
can’t get sound yet and the picture
is darned blurry, but it works.”

Mrs. Potterley clasped her hands
and held them tightly against her
breast. "How wonderful. How won-
derful.”

"It’s not at all wonderful,” snap-
ped Potterley. "The young fool can’t
reach further back than — ”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

"Now, look,’’ began Foster in
exasperation —

"Please!” cried Mrs. Potterley.
"Listen to me. Arnold, don't you
see that as long as we can use it for
twenty years back, we can see Laurel
once again ? What do we care about
Carthage and ancient times. It’s
Laurel we can see. She’ll be alive
for us again. Leave the machine here,
Dr. Foster. Show us how to work
it.”

Foster stared at her then at her
husband. Dr. Potterley’s face had
gone white. Though his voice stayed
low and even, its calmness was some-
how gone. He said, "You’re a fool!”
Caroline said, weakly, "Arnold!”
"You’re a fool, I say. What will
you see? The past. The dead past.
Will Laurel do one thing she did
not do? Will you see one thing you
haven’t seen? Will you live three
years over and over again, watching
a baby who’ll never grow up no
matter how you watch?”

His voice came near to cracking,
but held. He stepped closer to her,
seized her shoulder and shook her
roughly. "Do you know what will
happen to you if you do that? They
will come to take you away because
you’ll go mad. Yes, mad. Do you
want mental treatment? Do you want
to be shut up, to undergo the psychic
probe?”

Mrs. Potterley tore away. There
was no trace of softness or vague-
ness about her. She had twisted into
a virago. "I want to see my child,
Arnold. She's in that machine and
I want her.”

"She’s not in the machine. An
image is. Can’t you understand? An
image! Something that’s not real!”
"I want my child. Do you hear
me?” She flew at him, screaming,
fists beating. "I want my child.”
The historian retreated at the fury
of the assault, crying out. Foster
moved to step between when Mrs.
Potterley dropped, sobbing wildly,
to the floor.

Potterley turned, eyes desperately
seeking. With a sudden heave, he
snatched at a Lando-rod, tearing it
from its support, and whirling away
before Foster, numbed by all that
was taking place, could move to
stop him.

"Stand back!” gasped Potterley,
"or I’ll kill you. I swear it.”

He swung with force, and Foster
jumped back.

Potterley turned with fury on
every part of the structure in the
cellar, and Foster, after the first
crash of glass, watched dazedly.

Potterley spent his rage and then
he was standing quietly amid shards
and splinters, with a broken Lando-
rod in his hand. He said to Foster
in a whisper, "Now get out of here!
Never come back! If any of this cost
you anything, send me a bill and
I’ll pay for it. I'll pay double.”
Foster shrugged, picked up his
shirt and moved up the basement
stairs. He could hear Mrs. Potterley
sobbing loudly, and, as he turned
at the head of the stairs for a last
look, he saw Dr. Potterley bending
over her, face convulsed with sorrow.

THE DEAD PAST

Two days later, with the school
day drawing to a close, and Foster
looking wearily about to see if there
were any data on his newly-approved
projects that he wished to take home,
Dr. Potterley appeared once more.
He was standing at the open door
of Foster’s office.

The historian was neatly dressed
as ever. He lifted his hand in a
gesture that was too vague to be a
greating, too abortive to be a plea.
Foster stared stonily.

Potterley said, "I waited till five,
till you were — May I come in ?”

Foster nodded.

Potterley said, "I suppose I ought
to apologize for my behavior. I was
dreadfully disappointed; not quite
master of myself. Still, it was in-
excusable.”

"I accept your apology,” said
Foster. "Is that all?”

"My wife called you, I think.”

"Yes, she has.”

"She has been quite hysterical.
She told me she had but I couldn’t
be quite sure — ”

"She has called me.”

"Could you tell me . . . would
you be so kind as to tell me what
she wanted?”

"She wanted a chronoscope. She
said she had some money of her
own. She was willing to pay.”

"Did you . . . make any commit-
ments?”

"I said I wasn’t in the manufac-
turing business.”

"Good,” breathed Potterley, his
chest expanding with a sigh of re-
lief. "Please don’t take any calls

from her. She’s not . . . quite — ”
"Look, Dr. Potterley,” said Foster,
"I’m not getting into any domestic
quarrels, but you’d better be pre-
pared for something. Chronoscopes
can be built by anybody. Given a
few simple parts that can be bought
through some etherics sales-center,
it can be built in the home work-
shop. The video part, anyway.”
"But no one else will think of it
beside you, will they? No one has.”
"I don’t intend to keep it secret.”
"But you can’t publish. It's illegal
research.”

"That doesn't matter any more,
Dr. Potterley. If I lose my grants,
I lose them. If the university: is dis-
pleased, I’ll resign. It just doesn’t
matter.”

"But you can’t do that!”

"Till now,” said Foster, "you did-
n’t mind my risking loss of grants
and position. Why do you turn so
tender about it now? Now let me
explain something to you. When you
first came to me, I believed in or-
ganized and directed research; the
situation as it existed, in other
words. I considered you an intellec-
tual anarchist, Dr. Potterley, and
dangerous. But, for one reason or
another, I’ve been an anarchist my-
self for months now and I have
achieved great things.

"Those things have been achieved
not because I am a brilliant scien-
tist. Not at all. It was just that sci-
entific research had been directed
from above and holes were left that
could be filled in by anyone who
looked in the right direction. And

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

anyone might have if the ’govern-
ment, hadn’t actively tried to prevent
it.

"Now understand me. I still be-
lieve directed research can be useful.
I’m not in favor of a retreat to total
anarchy. But there must be a middle
ground. Directed research can retain
flexibility. A scientist must be allow-
ed to follow his curiosity, at least
in his spare time.”

Potterley sat down. He said, in-
gratiatingly, "Let's discuss this,
Foster. I appreciate your idealism.
You're young. You want the moon.
But you can’t destroy yourself
through fancy notions of what re-
seardrmust consist of. I got you into
this. I am responsible and 1 blame
myself bitterly. I was acting emo-
tionally. My interest in Carthage
blinded me and I was a fool.”
Foster broke in. "You mean you’ve
changed completely in two days ?
Carthage is nothing? Government
suppression of research is nothing?”
"E.ven a fool like myself can learn,
Foster. My wife taught me some-
thing. I understand the reason for
government suppression of neutrinics
now. I didn’t two days ago. And
understanding, I approve. You saw
the way my wife reacted to the news
of a chronoscope in the basement.
I had envisioned a chronoscope used
for research purposes. All she could
see was the personal pleasure of re-
turning neurotically to a personal
past, a dead past. The pure research-
er, Foster, is in the minority. People
like my wife would outweigh us.
"For the government to encourage

chronoscopy would have meant that
everyone’s past would be visible. The
government officers would be sub-
jected to blackmail and improper
pressure, since who on earth has a
past that is absolutely clean. Organ-
ized government might become im-
possible.”

Foster licked his lips. "Maybe.
Maybe the government has some
justification in its own eyes. Still,
there’s an important principle in-
volved here. Who knows what other
scientific advances are being stymied
because scientists are being stifled
into walking a narrow path? If the
chronoscope becomes the terror of
a few politicians, it’s a price that
must be paid. The public must real-
ize that science must be free and
there is no more dramatic way of
doing it than to publish my discov-
ery, one way or another, legally or
illegally.”

Potterley’s brow was in a per-
spiration, but his voice remained
even. "Oh, not just a few politicians,
Dr. Foster. Don't think that. It
would be my terror, too. My wife
would spend her time living with
our dead daughter. She would re-
treat further from reality. She would
go mad living the same scenes over
and over. And not just my terror.
There would be others like her.
Children searching for their dead
parents or their own youth. We’ll
have a whole world living in the
past. Midsummer madness.”

Foster said, "Moral judgments
can’t stand in the way. There isn’t
one advance at any time in history

T it E DEAD PAST

that mankind hasn’t had the inge-
nuity to pervert. Mankind must also
have the ingenuity to prevent. As
for the chronoscope, your delvers
into the dead past will get tired soon
enough. They’ll catch their loved
parents in some of the things their
loved parents did and they’ll lose
their enthusiasm for it all. But all
this is trivial. With me, it’s a matter
of an important principle.”

Potterley said, "Hang your princi-
ple. Can’t you understand men and
women as well as principle? Don’t
you understand that my wife will
live through the fire that killed our
baby? She won't be able to help her-
self. I know her. She’ll follow
through each step, trying to prevent
it. She’ll live it over and over again,
hoping each time that it won’t hap-
pen. How many times do you want
to kill Laurel?” A huskiness had
crept into his voice.

A thought crossed Foster’s mind.
"What are you really afraid she’ll
find out, Dr. Potterley? What hap-
pened the night of the fire?”

The historian’s hands went up
quickly to cover his face and they
shook with his dry sobs. Foster
turned away and stared uncomfort-
ably out the window.

Potterley said after a while, "It’s
a long time since I’ve had to think
of it. Caroline was away. I was
baby-sitting. I went in to the baby’s
bedroom mid-evening to see if she
had kicked off the bedclothes. I had
my cigarette with me. I smoked in
those days. I must have stubbed it

out before putting it in the ashtray
on the chest of drawers. I was al-
ways careful. The baby was all right.
I returned to the living room and
fell asleep before the video. I awoke,
choking, surrounded by fire. I don’t
know how it started.”

"But you think it may have been
the cigarette, is that it?” said Foster.
"A cigarette which, for once, you
forgot to stub out?”

"I don’t know. I tried to save her,
but she was dead in my arms when
I got out,”

"You never told your wife about
the cigarette, I suppose.”

Potterley shook his head. "But
I’ve lived with it.”

"Only now, with a chronoscope,
she'll find out. Maybe it wasn’t the
cigarette. Maybe you did stub it out.
Isn’t that possible?”

The scant tears had dried on Pot-
terley’s face. The redness had sub-
sided. He said, "I can’t take the
chance. But it’s not just myself,
Foster. The past has its terrors for
most people. Don’t loose those ter-
rors on the human race.”

Foster paced the floor. Somehow,
this explained the reason for Potter-
ley’s rabid, irrational desire to boost
the Carthaginians, deify them, most
of all disprove the story of their
fiery sacrifices to Moloch. By freeing
them of the guilt of infanticide by
fire, he symbolically freed himself
of the same guilt.

So the same fire that had driven
Potterley on to causing the construc-
tion of a chronoscope was now
driving him on to its destruction.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

Foster looked sadly at the older
man. "I see your position, Dr. Pot-
tcrley, but this goes above personal
feelings. I've got to smash this throt-
tling hold on the throat of science.”

Potterley said, savagely, "You
mean you want the fame and wealth
that goes with such a discovery.”

"I don't know about the wealth,
but that, ! oo. I suppose. I'm no more
than human. "

"You Won’t suppress your knowl-
edge?” I

"Not uhd er any circumstances.”

"Well, then — ” and the historian
got to his feet and stood for a mo-
ment, glaring.

Foster had an odd moment of
terror. The man was older than he,
smaller, feebler, and he didn’t look
armed. Still — -

Foster said, "If you're thinking
of killing me or anything insane like
that, I’ve got the information in a
safety-deposit vault where the prop-
er people will find it in case of my
disappearance or death.”

Potterley said, "Don’t be a fool,”
and stalked out.

Foster closed the door, locked it,
and sat down to think. He felt silly.
He had no information in any safety-
deposit vault, of course. Such a melo-
dramatic action would not have oc-
curred to him ordinarily. But now
it had.

Feeling even sillier, he spent an
hour writing out the equations of
the application of pseudo-gravitic
optics to neutrinic recording, and
some diagrams for the engineering
details of construction. He sealed it

in an envelope and scrawled Ralph
Nimmo's name over the outside.

He spent a rather restless night
and the next morning, on the way
to school, dropped the envelope off
at the bank, with appropriate in-
structions to an official, who- made
him sign a papier permitting the box
to be opened after his death.

He called Nimmo to tell him of
the existence of the envelope, refus-
ing querulously to say anything about
its contents.

He had never felt so ridiculously
self-conscious as at that moment.

That night and the next, Foster
spent in only fitful sleep, finding
himself face to face with the highly
practical problem of the publication
of data unethically obtained.

The Proceedings of the Society
for Pseudo-Gravities, which was the
journal with which he was best ac-
quainted, would certainly not touch
any paper that did not include the
magic footnote: "The work de-

scribed in this paper was made pos-
sible by Grant No. so-and-so from
the Commission of Research of the
United Nations.”

Nor, doubly so, would the Journal
of Physics.

There were always the minor
journals who might overlook the na-
ture of the article for the sake of
the sensation, but that would require
a little financial negotiation on
which he hesitated to embark. It
might, on the whole, be better to
pay the cost of publishing a small
pamphlet for general distribution

THE DEAD PAST

among scholars. In that case, he
would even be able to dispense with
the services of a science-writer, sac-
rificing polish for speed. He would
have to find a reliable printer. Uncle
Ralph might know one.

He walked down the corridor to
his office and wondered anxiously
if perhaps he ought to waste no
further time, give himself no further
chance to lapse into indecision and
take the risk of calling Ralph from
his office phone. He was so absorbed
in his own heavy thoughts that he
did not notice that his room was
occupied until he turned from the
clothes-closet and approached his
desk.

Dr. Potterley was there and a man
whom Foster did not recognize.

Foster stared at them. "What’s
this?”

Potterley said, "I’m sorry, but I
had to stop you.”

Foster continued staring. "What
are you talking about?”

The stranger said, "Let me intro-
duce myself.” He had large teeth, a
little uneven, and they showed
prominently when he smiled. "I am
Thaddeus Araman, Department
Head of the Division of Chronos-
copy. I am here to see you concern-
ing information brought to me by
Professor Arnold Potterley and con-
firmed by our own sources — ”

Potterley said, breathlessly, "I
took all the blame, Dr. Foster. I ex-
plained that it was I who persuaded
you against your will into unethical
practices. I have offered to accept
full responsibility and punishment.

I don’t wish you harmed in any way.
It’s just that chronoscopy must be
put an end to.”

Araman nodded. "He has taken
the blame as he says, Dr. Foster,
but this thing is out of his hands
now.”

Foster said, "So? What are you
going to do? Blackball me from all
consideration for research grants?”

"That is in my power,”, said
Araman.

"Order the university to discharge
me?”

"That, too, is in my power.”

"All right, go ahead. Consider it
done. I'll leave my office now, with
you. I can send for my books later.
If you insist. I'll leave my books.
Is that all?”

"Not quite,’ said Araman. "You
must engage to do no further re-
search in chronoscopy, to publish
none of your findings in chronos-
copy, and, of course, to build no
chronoscope. You will remain under
surveillance indefinitely to make
sure you keep that promise.”

"Supposing I refuse to promise?
What can you do? Doing research
out of my field may be unethical, but
it isn’t a criminal offense.”

"In the case of chronoscopy, my
young friend,” said Araman, pa-
tiently, "it is a criminal offense. If
necessary, you will be put in jail
and kept there.”

"Why?” shouted Foster. "What’s
magic about chronoscopy?”

Araman said, "That’s the way it
is. We cannot allow further develop-
ments in the field. My own job is,

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

primarily, to make sure of that, and
I intend to do my job. Unfortunate-
ly, I had no knowledge, nor did
anyone in the department, that the
optics of pseudo-gravity fields had
such immediate application to
chronoscopy. Score one for general
ignorance, but henceforward, re-
search will be steered properly in
that respect, too."

Foster said, "That won't help.
Something else may apply that nei-
ther you nor I dream of. All science
hangs together. It's one piece. If

you want to stop one part, you've got
to stop it all."

"No doubt that is true," said
Araman, "in theory. On the practical
side, however, we have managed
quite well to hold chronoscopy down
to the original Sterbinski level for
fifty years. Having caught you in
time, Dr. Foster, we hope to con-
tinue doing so indefinitely. And we
wouldn’t have come this close to
disaster, either, if I had accepted
Dr. Potterley at something more than
face value.”

THE DEAD PAST

He turned toward the historian
and lifted his eyebrows in a kind of
humorous self-deprecation. "I’m
afraid, sir, that I dismissed you as a
history professor and no more on the
occasion of our first interview. Had
I done my job properly and checked
on you, this would not have hap-
pened.”

Foster said, abruptly, "Is anyone
allowed to use the government
chronoscope?”

"No one outside our division un-
der any pretext. I say that since it is
obvious to me that you have already
guessed as much. I warn you,
though, that any repetition of that
fact will be a criminal, not an ethi-
cal, offense.”

"And your chronoscope doesn’t
go back more than a hundred twenty-
five years or so, does it?”

"It doesn’t.”

"Then your bulletin with its
stories of time-viewing ancient times
is a hoax?”

Araman said, coolly, "With the
knowledge you now have, it is ob-
vious you know that for a certainty.
However, I confirm your remark.
The monthly bulletin is a hoax.”

"In that case,” said Foster, "I
will not promise to suppress my
knowledge of chronoscopy. If you
wish to arrest me, go ahead. My
defense at the trial will be enough
to destroy the vicious card-house of
directed research and bring it tum-
bling down. Directing research is
one thing; suppressing it and de-

priving mankind of its benefits is
quite another.”

Araman said, "Oh, let’s get some-
thing straight, Dr. Foster. If you
do not co-operate, you will go to
jail directly. You will not see a law
yer, you will not be charged, you
will not have a trial. You will sim-
ply stay in jail.”

"Oh, no,” said Foster, "you’re
bluffing. This is not the Twentieth
Century, you know."

There was a stir outside the office,
the clatter of feet, a high-pitched
shout that Foster was sure he recog-
nized. The door crashed open, the
lock splintering, and three inter-
twined figures stumbled in.

As they did so, one of the men
raised a blaster and brought its butt
down hard on the skull of another.

There was a whoosh of expiring
air, and the one whose head was
struck went limp.

"Uncle Ralph!” cried Foster.

Araman frowned. "Put him down
in that chair,” he ordered, "and get
some water.”

Ralph Nimmo, rubbing his head
with a gingerly sort of disgust, said,
"There was no need to get rough,
Araman.”

Araman said, "The guard should
have been rough sooner and kept
you out of here, Nimmo. You'd
have been better off.”

"You know each other?” asked
Foster.

"I’ve had dealings with the man,”
said Nimmo, still rubbing. "If he's

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

here in your office, nephew, you’re
in trouble.”

"And you, too,” said Araman,
angrily. "I know Dr. Foster consult-
ed you on neutrinics literature.”
Nimmo corrugated his forehead,
then straightened it with a wince as
though the action had brought pain.
"So?” he said. "What else do you
know about me?”

"We will know everything about
you soon enough. Meanwhile that
one item is enough to implicate you.
What are you doing here?”

"My dear Mr. Araman,” said
Nimmo, some of his jauntiness re-
stored, "day before yesterday, my
jackass of a nephew called me. He
had placed some mysterious in-
formation — ”

"Don’t tell him! Don’t say any-
thing!” cried Foster.

Araman glanced at him coldly.
"We know all about it, Dr. Foster.
The safety deposit box has been
opened and its contents removed.”
"But how can you know — ” Fos-
ter’s voice died away in a kind of
furious frustration.

"Anyway,” said Nimmo, "I de-
cided the net must be dosing around
him and after I took care of a few
items, I came down to tell him to
get off this thing he’s doing. It’s
not worth his career.”

"Does that mean you know what
he’s doing?” asked Araman.

"He never told me,” said Nimmo,
"but I’m a science-writer with a
hell of a lot of experience. I know
which side of an atom is electroni-
fied. The boy, Foster, specializes in

pseudo-gravitic optics and coached
me on the stuff himself. He got me
to get him a textbook on neutrinics
and I kind of skip-viewed it myself
.before handing it over. I can put
the two together. He asked me to
get him certain pieces of physical
equipment, and that was evidence,
too. Stop me if I’m wrong, but my
nephew has built a semiportable,
low-power chronoscope. Yes, or . . .
yes?” .

"Yes.” Araman reached thought-
fully for a cigarette and paid no at-
tention to Dr. Potterley — watching
silently, as though all were a dream
— who shied away, gasping, from
the white cylinder. "Another mistake
for me. I ought to resign. I should
have put tabs on you, too, Nimmo,
instead of concentrating too hard
on Potterley and Foster. I didn’t
have much time of course and you’ve
ended up safely here, but that does-
n’t excuse me. You’re under arrest,
Nimmo.”

"What for?” demanded the sci-
ence-writer.

"Unauthorized research.”

"I wasn’t doing any. I can’t, not
being a registered scientist. And
even if I did, it’s not a criminal
offense.”

Foster said, savagely, "No use,
Uncle Ralph. This bureaucrat is mak-
ing his own laws.”

"Like what?” demanded Nimmo.

"Like life imprisonment without
trial.”

"Nuts,” said Nimmo. "This isn’t
the Twentieth Cen — ■”

THE DEAD PAST

“I tried that,” said Foster. "It
doesn’t bother him.”

Nimmo shouted, "Look here,
Ataman. My nephew and I have
relatives who haven’t lost touch with
us, you know. The professor has
some also, I imagine. You can’t just
make us disappear. There’ll be ques-
tions and a scandal. This isn't the
Twentieth Century. So if you're try-
ing to scare us, it isn’t working.”
The cigarette snapped between
Araman’s figures and he tossed it
away violently. He said, "Damn it,
I don’t know what to do. It’s never
been like this before. Look! You
three fools know nothing of what
you’re trying to do. You understand
nothing. Will you listen to me?”
"Oh, we’ll listen,” said Nimmo,
grimly.

(Foster sat silently, eyes angry,
lips compressed. Potterley’s hands
writhed like intertwined snakes.)

Araman said, "The past to you is
the dead past. If any of you have
discussed the matter, it’s dollars to
nickels you’ve used that phrase. The
dead past. If you knew how many
times I’ve heard those three words,
you’d choke on them, too.

"When people think of the past,
they think of it as dead, far away
and gone, long ago. We encourage
them to think so. When we report
time-viewing, we always talk of
views centuries in the past even
though you gentlemen knew seeing
more than a century or so is im-
possible. People accept it. The past
means Greece, Rome, Carthage,

Egypt, the Stone Age. The deader
the better.

"Now you three know a century .
or a little more is the limit, so what
does the past mean to you? Your
youth. Your first girl. Your dead
mother. Twenty years ago. Thirty
years ago. Fifty years ago. The dead-
er the better. But when does the past
really begin?”

He paused in anger. The others
stared at him and Nimmo stirred
uneasily.

"Well,” said Araman, "when did
it begin? A year ago? Five minutes
ago? One second ago? Isn’t it ob-
vious that the past begins an instant
ago. The dead past is just another
name for the living present. What
if you focus the chronoscope in the
past of one-hundredth of a second
ago? Aren’t you watching the pres-
ent? Does it begin to sink in?”

Nimmo said, "Damnation.”

"Damnation,” mimicked Araman.
"After Potterley came to me with
his story night before last, how do
you suppose I checked up on both
of you? I did it with the chrono-
scope, spotting key moments to the
very instant of the present.”

"And that’s how you knew about
the safety deposit box?" said Foster.

"And every other important fact.
Now what do you suppose would
happen if we let news of a home
chronoscope get out. People might
start out by watching their youth,
their parents and so on, but it
wouldn’t be long before they’d catch
on to the possibilities. The house-
wife will forget her poor, dead

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

mother and take to watching her
neighbor at home and her husband
at the office. The businessman will
watch his competitor; the employer
his employee.

"There will be no such thing as
privacy. The party-line, the prying
eye behind the curtain will be noth-
ing compared to it. The video stars
will be closely watched at all times
by everyone. Every man his own
pceping-Tom and there’ll be no get-
ting away from the watcher. Even
darkness will be no escape because
chronoscopy can be adjusted to the
infrared and human figures can be
seen by their own body heat. The
figures will be fuzzy, of course, and
the surroundings will be dark, but
that will make the titillation of it
all the greater, perhaps. Even the
men in charge of the machine now
experiment sometimes in spite of all
the regulations against it.’’

Nimmo seemed sick. "You can
always forbid private manufac-
ture — ”

Araman turned on him fiercely.
"You can, but do you expect it to
do good? Can you legislate success-
fully against drinking, smoking,
adultery, or gossiping over the back
fence? And this mixture of nosiness
and prurience will have a worse grip
on humanity than any of those. In a
thousand years of trying we haven’t
even been able to wipe out the
heroin traffic and you talk about
legislating against a device for
watching anyone you please at any
time you please that can be built in
a home workshop.’’

Foster said, suddenly, "I won’t
publish.”

Potterley burst out, half in sobs.
"None of us will talk. I regret — ”

Nimmo broke in. "You said you
didn’t tab me on the chronoscope,
Araman.”

"No time,” said Araman, wearily.
"Things don’t move any faster on
the chronoscope than in real life.
You can’t speed it up like the film
in a book-viewer. We spent a full
twenty-four hours trying to catch
the important moments during the
last six months of Potterley and
Foster. There was no time for any-
thing else and it was enough.”

"It wasn't,” said Nimmo.

"What are you talking about?”
There was a sudden, infinite alarm
on Araman’s face.

"I told you my nephew, Jonas,
had called me to say he had put im-
portant information in a safety-
deposit box. He acted as though he
were in trouble. He’s my nephew.
I had to try to get him off the spot.
It took a while and then I came here
to tell him what I had done. I told
you when I got here, just after your
man conked me, that I had taken
care of a few items.”

"What for instance?”

"Just this: I sent the details of
the portable chronoscope off to half
a dozen of my regular publicity out-
lets.”

Not a word. Not a sound. Not a
breath. They were all past any
demonstration.

"Don’t stare like that,” cried

THE DEAD PAST

Nimmo. "Don't you see my point?
I had popular publication rights.
Jonas will admit that. I knew he
couldn’t publish scientifically in any
legal way. I was sure he was plan-
ning to publish illegally and was
preparing the safety-deposit box for
that reason. I thought if I put
through the details prematurely, all
the responsibility would be mine.
His career would be saved. And if
I were deprived of my science-writ-
ing license as a result, my exclusive
possession of the chronometric data
would set me up for life. Jonas
would be angry, I expected that, but
I could explain the motive and we
would split the take fifty-fifty. Don’t
stare at me like that. How did I
know — ”

"Nobody knew anything,” said
Araman bitterly, "but you all just
took it for granted that the govern-
ment was stupidly bureaucratic,
vicious, tyrannical, given to suppress-
ing research for the hell of it. It
never occurred to any of you that
we were trying to protect mankind
as best we could.”

"Don’t sit there talking,” wailed
Potterley. "Get the names of the
people who were told — ”

"Too late,” said Nimmo, shrug-
ging. "They’ve had better than a

day. There’s been time for the word
to spread. My outfits will have called
any number of physicists to check
my data before going on with it
and physicists will call one another
to pass on the news. Once scientists
put neutrinics and pseudo-gravities
together, home chronoscopy becomes
obvious. Before the week is out, five
hundred people will know how to
build a small chronoscope and how
will you catch them all?" Plis plump
cheeks sagged. "I suppose there’s
no way of putting the mushroom
cloud back into that nice, shiny
uranium sphere.”

Araman stood up. "We’ll try,
Potterley, but I agree with Nimmo.
It’s too late. What kind of a world
we’ll have from now on, I don’t
know, I can’t tell, but the world we
know has been destroyed completely.
Until now, every custom, every
habit, every tiniest way of life has
always taken a certain amount of
privacy for granted, but that’s all
gone now.”

He saluted each of the three with
elaborate formality. "You have
created a new world among the three
of you. I congratulate you. Happy
goldfish bowl to you, to me, to
everyone, and may each of you fry in
hell forever.”

THE END

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

THE MAN WHO ALWAYS KNEW

BY ALGIS BUORYS

Illustrated by van Dongen

You don ’t have to be a great genius in a hundred
fields — if you can just be a genius in the right field!

The small, thin, stoop-shouldered
man sat down on the stool nearest
the wall, took a dollar bill out of
his wallet, and laid it on the bar.

Behind their rimless glasses, his
watery blue eyes fastened vacantly
on a space somewhere between the
end of his nose and the bottles

THE MAN WHO ALWAYS KNEW

standing on the backbar tiers. An
old porkpie hat was squashed down
over the few sandy hairs that covered
his bony skull. His head was buried
deep in the collar of his old, baggy
tweed overcoat, and a yellow muffler
trailed down from around his neck.
His knobby-knuckled hands played
with the dollar bill.

Harry, the barkeep, was busy mix-
ing three martinis for a table in the
dining room, but as soon as the
small man came in he looked up and
smiled. And as soon as he had the
three filled glasses lined up on a
tray for the waiter to pick up, he
hurried up to the end of the bar.

"Afternoon, Mr. McMahon! And
what'll it be for you today?”

The small man looked up with a
wan sigh. "Nothing, yet, Harry.
Mind if I just sit and wait a min-
ute?”

"Not at all, Mr. McMahon, not
at all.” He looked around at the
empty stools. "Quiet as the grave
in here this afternoon. Same thing
over at the lab?”

The small man nodded slowly,
looking down at his fingers creasing
the dollar bill. "Just a quiet after-
noon, I guess,” he said in a tired
voice. "Nothing’s due to come to
a head over there until some time
next week.”

Harry nodded to show he under-
stood. It was that kind of a day.
"Haven’t seen you for a while, Mr.
McMahon — been away again?”

The small man pleated the dollar
bill, held one end between thumb
and forefinger, and spread the bill

like a fan. "That’s right. I went
down to Baltimore for a few days.”
He smoothed out the bill and touch-
ed the top of the bar. "You know,
Harry, it wouldn’t surprise me if
next year we could give you a bar
varnish you could let absolute al-
cohol stand on overnight.”

Harry shook his head slowly.
"Beats me, Mr. McMahon. I never
know what’s coming out of your lab
next. One week it’s steam engines,
the next it’s bar varnish. What gets
me is where you find the time.
Doing all that traveling and still
being the biggest inventor in the
world — bigger than Edison, even.
Why, just the other day the wife
and I went out and bought two of
those pocket transceiver sets of yours,
and Emma said she didn’t see how
I could know you. 'A man as busy
as Mr. McMahon must be,’ she said,
'wouldn’t be coming into the bar
all the time like you say he does.’
Well, that’s a wife for you. But
she’s right. Beats me, too, like I
said.”

The small man shrugged uncom-
fortably, and didn’t say anything.
Then he got a suddenly determined
look on his face and started to say
something, but just then the waiter
stepped up to the bar.

"Two Gibson, one whiskey sour,
Harry.”

"Coming up. Excuse me, Mr.
McMahon. Mix you something while
I’m down there?”

The small man shook his head.
"Not just yet, Harry.”

"Right, Mr. McMahon.”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

Harry shook up the cocktails
briskly. From the sound of it, Mr.
McMahon had been about to say
something important, and anything
Mr. McMahon thought was impor-
tant would be something you should-
n’t miss.

He bumped the shaker, dropped
the strainer in, and poured the Gib-
sons. He just hoped Mr. McMahon
hadn’t decided it wasn’t worth talk-
ing about. Let’s see what Emma
would have to say if he came home
and told her what Mr. McMahon
had told him, and a year or two
later something new — maybe a new
kind of home permanent or some-
thing — came out. She’d use it. She’d
luvc to use it, because it would just
naturally be the best thing on the
market. And every time she did,
she’d have to remember that Harry
had told her first. Let’s see her say
Mr. McMahon wasn’t a steady cus-
tomer of his then ! Bar varnish was-
n’t in the same league.

The small man was looking into
space again, with a sad little smile,
when Harry got back to him. He
was pushing the dollar bill back and
forth with his index fingers. A
bunch of people came in the door
and Harry muttered under his
breath, but they didn’t stop at the
bar. They went straight from the
coat rack to the dining room, and
Harry breathed easier. Maybe he’d
have time to hear w'hat Mr. Mc-
Mahon had to say.

"Well, here I am again, Mr. Mc-
Mahon.”

The small man looked up with a

sharp gleam in his eyes. "Think
I’m pretty hot stuff, eh, Harry?”

"Yes, sir,” Harry said, not know-
ing what to make of it.

"Think I’m the Edison of the age,
huh?”

"Well — gosh, Mr. McMahon, you
are better than Edison!”

The small man’s fingers crumpled
up the dollar bill and rolled it into
a tight ball.

"The Perfect Cumbustion Engine,
the Condensing Steam Jet, the Voice-
Operated Typewriter, the Discon-
tinuous Airfoil — things like that,
eh?” the small man asked sharply.

"Yes, sir. And the Arc House,
and the Minute Meal, and the Lint-
less Dustcloth — well, gosh, Mr. Mc-
Mahon, I could go on all day, I
guess.”

"Didn’t invent a one of them,”
the small man snapped. His shoul-
ders seemed to straighten out from
under a heavy load. He looked Harry
in the eye. "I never invented any-
thing in my life.”

"Two Gibson and another whiskey
sour, Harry,” the waiter interrupted.

"Yeah — sure.” Harry moved un-
easily down the bar. He tilted the
gin bottle slowly, busy turning
things over in his mind. He sneaked
a look at Mr. McMahon. The small
man was looking down at his hands,
curling them up into fists and smil-
ing. He looked happy. That wasn’t
like him at all.

Harry set the drinks up on the
waiter’s tray and got back up to the
end of the bar.

THE MAN WHO ALWAYS KNEW

"Mr. McMahon?”

The small man looked up again.
"Yes, Harry?” He did look happy —
happy all the way through, like a
man with insomnia who suddenly
feels himself drifting off to sleep.

"You were just saying about that
varnish — ”

"Fellow in Baltimore. Paints signs
for a living. Not very good ones;
they weather too fast. I noticed him
working, the last time I was down
that way.”

"I don’t follow you, Mr. Mc-
Mahon.”

The small man bounced the ball-
ed-up dollar bill on the bar and
watched it roll around. "Well, I
knew he was a conscientious young
fellow, even if he didn’t know
much about paint. So, yesterday I
went back down there, and, sure
enough, he'd been fooling around —
just taking a little of this and a little
of that, stirring it up by guess and
by gosh — and he had something he
could paint over a sign that would
stand up to a blowtorch.”

"Golly, Mr. McMahon. I thought
you said he didn’t know much about
paint.”

The small man scooped up the
bill and smoothed it out. "He didn’t.
He was just fooling around. Any-
body else would have just come up
with a gallon of useless goo. But he
looked like the kind of man who’d
happen to hit it right. And he looked
like the kind of man who’d hit it
sometime about yesterday. So I went
down there, made him an offer, and
came back with a gallon of what’s

going to be the best varnish any-
body ever put on the market.”

Harry twisted his hands uncom-
fortably in his pockets. "Gee, Mr.
McMahon — you mean you do the
same thing with everything else?”

"That’s right, Harry.” The small
man pinched the two ends of the
dollar bill, brought them together,
and then snapped the bill flat with
a satisfied pop! "Exactly the same
thing. I was on a train passing an
open field once, and saw a boy flying
model airplanes. Two years later,
I went back and sure enough, he’d
just finished his first drawings on the
discontinuous airfoil. 1 offered him
a licensing fee and a good cash ad-
vance, and came home with the air-
foil.” The small man looked down
sadly and reminiscently. "He used
the money to finance himself through
aeronautical engineering school.
Never turned out anything new
again.”

"Gosh, Mr. McMahon. I don’t
know what to say. You mean you
travel around the country just look-
ing for people that are working on
something new?”

The small man shook his head.
"No. I travel around the country,
and I stumble across people who’re
going to accidentally stumble across
something good. I’ve got secondhand
luck.” The small man rolled the bill
up between his fingers, and smiled
with a hurt twist in his sensitive
mouth. "It’s even better than that.
I know more or less what they’re
going to stumble across, and when

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

they’re going to.” He bent the tube
he'd made out of the bill. "But I
can’t develop it myself. I just have
to wait. I've only got one talent.”
"Well, gee, Mr. McMahon, that’s
a fine thing to have.”

The small man crushed the dollar
bill. "Is it, Harry? How do you use
it directly? How do you define it?
Do you set up shop as McMahon
and Company — Secondhand Luck
Bought and Sold? Do you get a
Nobel Prize for Outstanding
Achievement in Luck?”

"You’ve got a Nobel Prize, Mr.
McMahon.”

"For a cold cure discovered by a
pharmacist who mis-labeled a couple
of prescriptions.”

"Well, look, Mr. McMahon —
that’s better than no Nobel Prize at
all.”

The small man’s sensitive mouth
twisted again. "Yes, it is, Harry.
A little bit.” He almost tore the
dollar bill. "Just a little bit.” He
stared into space.

"Mr. McMahon, I wouldn’t feel
so bad about it if I was you. There’s

no sense to taking it out on your-
self,” Harry said wmrriedly.

The small man shrugged.

Harry shuffled his feet. "I wish
there was something I could do for
you.” It felt funny, being sorry for
the luckiest man in the world.

The small man smoothed the dol-
lar out again.

"Two whiskey sour, and another
Gibson,” the waiter said. Harry
moved unhappily down the bar and
began to mix, thinking about Mr.
McMahon. Then he heard Mr. Mc-
Mahon get off his stool and come
down the bar.

He looked up. The small man was
standing opposite him, and looking
down at the bar. Harry looked down
too, and realized he’d been trying
to make a whiskey sour with Gibson
liquor. It looked like nothing he’d
ever seen before.

Mr. McMahon pushed the dollar
bill across the bar. He reached out
and took the funny-looking drink.
There was a sad-happy smile on his
face.

"That’s the one I wanted, Harry,”
he said.

THE END

DEFINITION

Democracy: A governmental system involving a high percentage of
negative feedback around ail stages of the system from input to output.

THE MAN WHO ALWAYS KNEW

LEGWORK

ERIC FRANK RUSSELL

There ’s a bit of tendency in
science fiction to view the mar-
velous Gimmick or Power as
unstoppable. Russell has here,
a small question . . .

Illustrated by Freas

As nearly as an Andromedan
thought form can be expressed in
print, his name was Harasha Vanash.
The formidable thing about him was
his conceit. It was redoubtable be-
cause justified. His natural power had
been tested on fifty hostile worlds
and found invincible.

The greatest asset any living crea-
ture can possess is a brain capable of
imagination. That is its strong point,
its power center. But to Vanash an
opponent’s mind was a weak spot,
a chink in the armor, a thing to be
exploited.

Even he had his limitations. He
could not influence a mind of his
own species armed with his own
power. He could not do much with a
brainless life form except kick it in
the rumps. But if an alien could

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

think and imagine, that alien was
his meat.

Vanash was a twenty-four carat
hypno, jeweled in every hole. Given
a thinking mind to work upon at
any range up to most of a mile, he
could convince it in a split second
that black was white, right was
wrong, the sun had turned bright
green, and the corner cop was King
Farouk. Anything he imposed stayed
stuck unless he saw fit to unstick it.
liven if it outraged common sense,
the victim would sign affidavits,
swear to it upon the Bible, the Koran
or whatever, and then be led away
to have his head examined.

There was one terminal restriction
(hat seemed to have the nature of
a cosmos-wide law; he could not
compel any life form to destroy it-
self by its own hand. At that point
the universal instinct of self-survival
became downright mulish and re-
fused to budge.

However, he was well able to do
the next best thing. He could do
what a snake does to a rabbit, name-
ly, obsess the victim with the idea
that it was paralyzed and completely
unable to flee from certain death. He
could not persuade a Bootean ap-
polan to cut its own throat, but he
could make it stand still while he
performed that service.

Yes, Harasha Vanash had excellent
basis for self-esteem. When one has
walked into and out of fifty worlds
one can afford to be confident about
the fifty-first. Experience is a faith-
ful and loving servant, always ready

with a long, stimulating draught of
ego when required.

So it was with nonchalance that
he landed on Earth. The previous
day he’d given the planet a look-over
and his snooping had set off the
usual rumors about flying saucers de-
spite that his ship resembled no such
object.

He arrived unseen in the hills, got
out, sent the ship up to where its
automechanisms would swing it into
a distant orbit and make it a pinhead-
sized moon. Among the rocks he hid
the small, compact apparatus that
could call it back when wanted.

The vessel was safe from interfer-
ence up there, high in the sky. The
chance of it being observed tele-
scopically was very remote. If the
creatures of Earth did succeed in de-
tecting its presence, they could do
nothing about it. They hadn’t any
rocketships. They could do no more
than look and wonder and worry.

Yesterday’s preliminary investiga-
tion had told him practically nothing
about the shape and form of the
dominant life. He hadn’t got near
enough for that. All he’d wanted to
know was whether this planet was
worthy of closer study and whether
its highest life form had exploitable
minds. It had not taken long to see
that he’d discovered an especially
juicy plum, a world deserving of
eventual confiscation by the Androm-
edan horde.

The physical attributes of these
future slaves did not matter much
right now. Though not at all bizarre,

LEGWORK

he was sufficiently like them to walk
around, sufficiently unlike to raise a
yelp of alarm on sight. There would
be no alarm. In spite of a dozen
physical differences they’d be soothed,
positively soothed. Because they’d
never get a true view of him. Only
an imaginary one. He could be a
mental mock-up of anything, any-
body.

Therefore, the first thing to do
was to find a mediocrity who would
pass unnoticed in a crowd, get his
mental image firmly fixed and im-
press that on all other minds sub-
sequently encountered until such
time as it might be convenient to
switch pictures.

Communication was no problem,
either. He could read the questions,
project the answers, and the other
party’s own mind could be compelled
to supply accompanying camouflage.
If they communicated by making
noises with their mouths or by dex-
terous jiggling of their tails, it would
work out the same. The other’s mas-
tered imagination would get his mes-
sage while providing the noises and
mouth movements or the appropriate
tail-jigglings.

Leaving the landing place, he set
forth through the hills, heading for
a well-used road observed during his
descent. A flight of primitive jet-
planes arced across the eastward
horizon. He paused long enough to
watch them with approval. The trou-
ble with prospective servants already
discovered elsewhere was that they
were a bit too stupid to be efficient.
Not here, though.

He continued on his way, bearing
no instrument other than a tiny com-
pass needed for eventual return and
take-off. No weapon. Not a knife,
not a gun. There was no need to
burden himself with lethal hard-
ware. By self-evident logic, local
weapons were the equals of them-
selves. Any time he wanted one he
could make the nearest sucker hand
over his own and feel happy to do
it. It was that easy. He’d done it a
dozen times before and could do it
a dozen times again.

By the roadside stood a small fill-
ing station with four pumps. Vanash
kept watch upon it from the shelter
of thick bushes fifty yards away.
Hm-m-m! bipeds, vaguely like him-
self but with semi-rigid limbs and a
lot more hair. There was one oper-
ating a pump, another sitting in a
car. He could not get a complete
image of the latter because only the
face and shoulders were visible. As
for the former, the fellow wore a
glossy-peaked cap bearing a metal
badge, and uniformlike overalls with
a crimson cipher on the pocket.

Neither example was suitable for
mental duplication, he decided. One
lacked sufficient detail, the other had
far too much. Characters, who wore
uniforms, usually took orders, had
fixed duties, were liable to be noted
and questioned if seen some place
where they shouldn’t be. It would be
better to pick a subject able to move
around at random.

The car pulled away. Peaked Cap
wiped his hands on a piece of cotton

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

waste and gazed along the road.
Vanash maintained his watch. After
a few minutes another car halted.
This one had an aerial sticking from
its roof and bore two individuals
dressed alike; peaked caps, metal
buttons and badges. They were heavy-
featured, hard-eyed, had an official
air about them. They wouldn't do
either, thought Vanash. Too con-
spicuous.

Unconscious of this scrutiny, one
of the cops said to the attendant,
"Seen anything worth telling, Joe?”

"Not a thing. All quiet.”

The police cruiser jerked forward
and continued its patrol. Joe went
into the station. Taking a flavor-seed
from its small pack, Vanash chewed
it and meditated while he bided his
time. So they were mouth-talkers,
nontelepathic, routine-minded and
natural puppets for any hypno who
cared to dangle them around.

Still, their cars, jetplanes and other
gadgets proved that they enjoyed
occasional flashes of inspiration. In
Andromedan theory the rare touch
of genius was all that menaced any
hypno, since nothing else could sense
his existence, follow his operations
and pin him down.

It was a logical supposition — in
terms of other-world logic. Every-
thing the Andromedan culture pos-
sessed had been born one by one
of numberless revealing shafts of rev-
elation that through the centuries
had sparked out of nothingness in
the inexplicable way that such things
do. But flashes of inspiration come
spontaneously, of their own accord.

They cannot be created to order no
matter how great the need. Any
species could go nuts for lack of
one essential spark and, like every-
one else, be compelled to wait its
turn.

The trap in any foreign culture
lies in the fact that no newcomc-r can
know everything about it, imagine
everything, guess everything. For in-
stance, who could guess that the
local life form were a bunch of
chronic fidgets? Or that, because of
it, they’d never had time to wait for
genius? Vanash did not know, and
could not suspect, that Earth had a
tedious, conventional and most times
unappreciated substitute for touches
of genius. It was slow, grim, deter-
mined and unspectacular, but it was
usable as and when required and it
got results.

Variously it was called making the
grade, slogging along, doing it the
hard way, or just plain lousy leg-
work. Whoever heard of such a
thing ?

Not Vanash, nor any of his kind.
So he waited behind the bushes until
eventually a nondescript, mousy in-
dividual got out of a car, obligingly
mooched around offering every detail
of his features, mannerisms and at-
tire. This specimen looked the un-
attached type that are a dime a dozen
on any crowded city street. Vanash
mentally photographed him from
every angle, registered him to per-
fection and felt satisfied.

Five miles to the north along this
road lay a small town, and forty

LEGWORK

.55

miles beyond it a big city. He’d seen
and noted them on the way down,
deciding that the town would serve
as ; training-ground before going to
the city. Right now he could step
boldly from cover and compel his
model to drive him where he wanted
to, go.

The idea was tempting but un-
wise. Before he was through with
this world its life form would be-
come aware of inexplicable happen,
insrs in their midst and it would be
safer not to locate the first of such
events so near to the rendezvous with
the ship. Peaked Cap might talk too
loudly and too long about the amaz-
ing coincidence of a customer giving
a lift to an exact twin. The victim
himself might babble bemusedly
about picking up somebody who
made him feel as though looking
into a mirror. Enough items like that,
and a flash of revelation could as-
semble them into a picture of the
horrid truth.

He let the customer go and waited
for Joe to enter the building. Then
he emerged from the bushes, walked
half a mile northward, stopped and
looked to the south.

The first car that came along was
driven by a salesman who never,
never, never picked up a hitcher.
He’d heard of cases where free riders
had bopped the driver and robbed
him, and he wasn’t going to be rolled
if he could help it. So far as he was
concerned, thumbers by the wayside
could go on thumbing until next
Thursday week.

He stopped and gave Vanash a

lift and lacked the vaguest notion
of why he’d done it. All he knew
was that in a moment of mental
aberration he'd broken the habit of
a lifetime and picked up a thin- faced,
sad and silent customer who resem-
bled a middle-aged mortician.

"Going far?” asked the salesman,
inwardly bothered by the weakness
of his own resolution.

"Next town,” said Vanash. Or the
other one thought he said it, distinct-
ly heard him saying it and would
take a dying oath that it really had
been said. Sneaking the town’s name
from the driver’s mind and thrusting
it back again, Vanash persuaded him
to hear the addition of, "North-
wood.”

"Any particular part?”

"Doesn’t matter. It’s a small place.
Drop me wherever you find conven-
ient.”

The driver grunted assent, offered
no more conversation. His thoughts
milled around, baffled by his oven
Samaritanism. Arriving in North-
wood, he stopped the car.

"This do?”

"Thanks.” Vanash got out. "I ap-
preciate it.”

"Think nothing of it,” said the
salesman, driving away bopless and
unrolled.

Vanash watched him depart, then
had a look around Northwood.

The place was nothing much. It
had shops on one long main street
and on two short side streets. A rail-
road depot with a marshaling yard.
Four medium-sized industrial plants.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

Three banks, a post office, a fire sta-
tion, a couple of municipal build-
ings. He estimated that Northwood
held between four and five thousand
Earthlings and that at least a third
of them worked on outlying farms.

He ambled along the main street
and was ignored by unsuspecting
natives while practically rubbing
shoulders with them. The experience
gave him no great kick; he’d done
it so often elsewhere that he now
took it for granted and was almost
bored by it. At one point a dog saw
him, let go a howl of dismay and
bolted with its tail between its legs.
Nobody took any notice. Neither did
he.

First lesson in pre-city education
was gained inside a shop. Curious
to see how the customers got what
they wanted, he entered with a bunch
of them. They used a medium of
exchange in the form of printed
paper and metal disks. That meant
he'd save himself considerable trou-
ble and inconvenience if he got hold
of a supply of the stuff.

Moving to a crowded supermarket,
he soon learned the relative values of
money and a fair idea of its purchas-
ing power. Then he helped himself
to a small supply and was smart
enough to do it by proxy. The tech-
nique was several times easier than
falling off a log.

Standing unnoticed at one side,
he concentrated attention on a
plump, motherly shopper of obvious
respectability. She responded by
picking the purse of a preoccupied
woman next to her. Sneaking the

loot out of the market, she dropped
it unopened on a vacant lot, went
home, thought things over and held
her head.

The take was forty-two dollars.
Vanash counted it carefully, went
to a cafeteria, splurged some of it
on a square meal. By other methods
he could have got the feed for free,
but such tactics are self -advertising
and can be linked up by a spark of
inspiration. To his taste, some of the
food was revolting, some passable,
but it would do until he’d learned
how to pick and choose.

One problem not yet satisfactorily
resolved was that of what to do with
the night. He needed sleep as much
as any inferior life form and had to
find some place for it. A snooze
in the fields or a barn would be in-
appropriate; the master does not ac-
cept the hay while the servants snore
on silk.

It took a little while to find out
from observation, mind-pickings and
a few questions to passers-by that he
could bed down at an hotel or room-
ing house. The former did not appeal
to him. Too public and, therefore, too
demanding upon his resources for
concealment. In an hotel he’d have
less opportunity to let up for a while
and be himself, which was a welcome
form of relaxation.

But with a room of his own free
from constantly intruding servants
armed with master-keys, he could re-
vert to a normal, effortless state of
mind, get his sleep, work out his
plans in peace and privacy.

LEGWORK

He found a suitable rooming
house without much trouble. A
blowzy female with four warts on
her florid face showed him his hide-
out, demanded twelve dollars in ad-
vance because he had no luggage.
Paying her, he informed her that
he was William Jones, here for a
week on business, and that he liked
to be left alone.

In return, she intimated that her
joint was a palace of peace for gen-
tlemen, and that any bum who im-
ported a hussy would be out on his
neck. He assured her that he would
not dream of such a thing, which
was true enough because to him such
a dream would have all the makings
of a nightmare. Satisfied, she with-
drew.

He sat on the edge of the bed and
thought things over. It would have
been an absurdly simple trick to have
paid her in full without handing her
a cent. He could have sent her away
convinced that she had been paid.
But she'd still be short twelve dollars
and get riled about the mysterious
loss. If he stayed on, he'd have to
fool her again and again until at
last the very fact that his payments
coincided exactly with her losses
would be too much even for an
idiot.

A way out would be to nick some-
one for a week’s rent, then move
and take another boob. That tactic
had its drawbacks. If the news got
around and a hunt started after the
bilker, he would have to change
identities.

He wasn’t averse to soaking a mut-

tonhead or switching personalities,
providing it was necessary. It irked
him to have to do it frequently, for
petty reasons hardly worth the effort.
To let himself be the constant vic-
tim of trifling circumstances was to
accept that these aliens were impos-
ing conditions upon him. His ego
resented such an idea.

All the same, he had to face a self-
evident premise and its unavoidable
conclusion. On this world one must
have money to get around smoothly,
without irritating complications.
Therefore, he must acquire an ade-
quate supply of the real thing or be
continually called upon to create the
delusion that he possessed it. No
extraordinary intelligence was needed
to divine which alternative gave the
least trouble.

On other worlds the life forms
had proved so sluggish and dull-
witted, their civilizations so rudimen-
tary, that it had not taken long to
make a shrewd estimate of their
worth as future foes and subsequent
slaves. Here, the situation was a lot
more complicated and required
lengthier, more detailed survey. By
the looks of it he’d be stalled quite
a time. So he must get hold of
money in quantities larger than that
carried by the average individual.
And when it ran out, he must get
more.

Next day he devoted some time
to tracing the flow of money back
to a satisfactory source. Having found
the source, he spent more time mak-
ing careful study of it. In underworld
jargon, he cased a bank.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

The man lumbering alone the
corridor weighed two-fifty, had a
couple of chins and a prominent
paunch. At first sight, just a fat slob.
First impressions can be very decep-
tive. At least half a dozen similarly
built characters had been world
heavyweight wrestling champs. Ed-
ward G. Rider was not quite in that
category, but on rare occasion he
could strew bodies around in a way
that would make an onlooking
chiseler offer his services as man-
ager.

He stopped at a frosted glass door
bearing the legend: UNITED

STATES TREASURY— INVESTI-
GATION. Rattling the glass with a
hammerlike knuckle, he entered with-
out waiting for response, took a seat
without being invited.

The sharp-faced individual behind
the desk registered faint disapproval,
said, "Eddie, I’ve got a smelly one
for you.”

"Have you ever given me one that
wasn’t?” Rider rested big hands on
big kneecaps. "What’s it this time?
Another unregistered engraver on the
rampage ?”

"No. It’s a bank robbery.”

Rider frowned, twitched heavy
eyebrows. "I thought we were inter-
ested only in counterfeit currency and
illegal transfers of capital. What has
a heist to do with us? That’s for the
police, isn’t it?”

"The police are stuck with it.”

"Well, if the place was govern-
ment insured they can call in the
Feds.”

"It’s not insured. We offered to

lend a hand. You are the boy who
will lend it.”

"Why?”

The other drew a deep breath,
explained rapidly, "Some smartie
took the First Bank of Northwood
for approximately twelve thousand — -
and nobody knows how. Captain
Harrison, of the Northwood police,
says the puzzle is a stinker. Accord-
ing to him, it looks very much as
though at long last somebody has
found a technique for committing
the perfect crime.”

"He would say that if he feels
thwarted. How come we’re dragged
into it?”

"On checking up with the bank
Harrison found that the loot included
forty one-hundred dollar bills con-
secutively numbered. Those numbers
are known. The others are not. He
phoned us to give the data, hoping
the bills might turn up and we could
back-track on them. Embleton han-
dled the call, chatted a while, got
interested in this perfect crime
thesis.”

"So?”

"He consulted with me. We both
agreed that if somebody has learned
how to truck lettuce the way he
likes, he’s as much a menace to the
economy as any large-scale counter-
feiter.”

"I see,” said Rider, doubtfully.

"Then I took the matter up at
high level. Ballantyne himself de-
cided that we’re entitled to chip in,
just in case something’s started that
can go too far. I chose you. The
whole office block will sit steadier

LEGWORK

X \

without your size fourteen boots
banging around.” He moved some
papers to his front, picked up a pen.
"Get out to Northwood and give
Chief Harrison a boost.”

"Now?”

"Any reason why it should be
tomorrow or next week?”

"I’m baby-sitting tonight.”
"Don’t be silly.”

"It’s not silly,” said Rider. "Not
with this baby.”

"You ought to be ashamed. You're
not long married. You’ve got a sweet
and trusting w'ife.”

"She’s the baby,” Rider informed.
"I promised her faithfully and fer-
vently that I’d — ”

"And I promised Harrison and
Ballantyne that you’d handle this
with your usual elephantine effi-
ciency,” the other interrupted, scowl-
ing. "Do you want to hold down
your job or do you want out? Phone
your wife and tell her duty comes
first.”

"Oh, all right.” He went out,
slammed the door, tramped surlily
along the corridor, entered a booth
and took twenty-two minutes to do
the telling.

Chief Harrison was tall, lean and
fed up. He said, "Why should I
bother to tell you what happened?
Direct evidence is better than sec-
ondhand information. We’ve got the
actual witness here. I sent for him
when I learned you were coming."
He flipped a switch on the desk-box.
"Send Ashcroft in.”

"Who’s he?” Rider asked.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

"Head teller of the First Bank,
and a worried man.” He waited for
the witness to enter, made an intro-
duction. "This is Mr. Rider, a special
investigator. He wants to hear your
story."

Ashcroft sat down, wearily rubbed
his forehead. He was a white-haired,
dapper man in the early sixties. Rider
weighed him up as the precise, some-
what finicky but solid type often de-
scribed as a pillar of the community.

"So far I’ve told it about twenty
times,” Ashcroft complained, "and
each time it sounds a little madder.
My mind is spinning with the
thoughts of it. I just can’t find any
plausible — ”

"Don’t worry yourself,” advised
Rider in soothing tones. "Just give
me the facts as far as they go.”

"Each week we make up the pay-
roll for the Dakin Glass Company.
It varies between ten and fifteen
thousand dollars. The day before
the company sends around a messen-
ger with a debit-note calling for the
required sum and stating how they
want it. We then get it ready in
good time for the following morn-
ing.”

"And then?”

"The company collects. They send
around a cashier accompanied by a
couple of guards. He always arrives
at about eleven o’clock. Never earlier
than ten to eleven or later than ten
past.”

"You know the cashier by sight?”

"There are two of them, Mr.
Swain and Mr. Letheren. Either of
them might come for the money.

One relieves the other from time to
time. Or one comes when the other
is too busy, or ill, or on vacation.
Both have been well-known to me
for several years.”

"All right, carry on.”

"When the cashier arrives he
brings a locked leather bag and , has
the key in a pocket. He unlocks the
bag, hands it to me. I fill it in such
manner that he can check the quan-
tities, pass it back together with a
receipt slip. He locks the bag, puts
the key in his pocket, signs the
slip and walks out. I file the receipt
and that’s all there is to it.”

"Seems a bit careless to let the
same fellow carry both the bag and
the key,” Rider commented.

Chief Harrison chipped in with,
"We’ve checked on that. A guard
carries the key. He gives it to the
cashier when they arrive at the bank,
takes it back when they leave.”
Nervously licking his lips, Ash-
croft went on, "Last Friday morning
we had twelve thousand one hundred
eighty-two dollars ready for the
Dakin plant. Mr. Letheren came in
with the bag. It was exactly ten-
thirty.”

"Flow do you know that?” in-
quired Rider, sharply. "Did you look
at the clock? What impelled you to
look at it?”

"I consulted the clock because I
was a little surprised. He was ahead
of his usual time. I had not expected
him for another twenty minutes or
so.”

"And it was ten-thirty? You’re
positive of that?”

LEGWOKK

"I am absolutely certain,” said
Ashcroft, as though it was the only
certainty in the whole affair. "Mr.
Letheren came up to the counter and
gave me the bag. I greeted him, made
a casual remark about him being
early.”

"What was his reply?”

"I don’t recall the precise word-
ing. I’d no reason to take especial
note of what he said and I was busy
tending the bag.” He frowned with
effort of thought. "He made some
commonplace remark about it being
better to be too early than too late.”
'"What occurred next?”

"I gave him the bag and the slip.
He locked the bag, signed the slip
and departed.”

"Is that all?” Rider asked.

"Not by a long chalk,” put in
’Chief Harrison. He nodded encour-
agingly at Ashcroft. "Go on, give
him the rest of it.”

"At five to eleven,” continued the
witness, his expression slightly be-
fuddled, "Mr, Letheren came back,
placed the bag on the counter and
looked at me sort of expectantly. So
I said, 'Anything wrong, Mr. Leth-
eren?' He answered, 'Nothing so far
as I know. Ought there to be?’ ”
He paused, rubbed his forehead
again. Rider advised, "Take your
time with it. I want it as accurately
as you can give it.”

Ashcroft pulled himself together.
"I told him there was no reason for
anything to be -wrong because tire
money had been checked and re-
checked three times. He then dis-

played some impatience and said he
didn’t care if it had been checked
fifty times so long as I got busy
handing it over and let him get back
to the plant.”

"That knocked you onto your
heels, eh?” Rider suggested, with
a grim smile.

"I was flabbergasted. At first I
thought it was some kind of joke,
though he isn’t the type to play such
tricks. I told him I’d already given
him the money, about half an hour
before. He asked me if I was cracked.
So I called Jackson, a junior teller,
and he confirmed my statement. He
had seen me loading the bag.”

"Did he also see Letheren taking
it away?"

"Yes, sir. And he said as much.”

"What was Letheren’s answer to
that?”

"He demanded to see the manager.
I showed him into Mr. Olsen’s office.
A minute later Mr. Olsen called for
the receipt slip. I took it out of the
file and discovered there was no
signature upon it.”

"It was blank?”

"Yes. I can’t understand it. I
watched him sign that receipt my-
self. Nevertheless there was nothing
on it, not a mark of any sort.” He
sat silent and shaken, then finished,
"Mr. Letheren insisted that Mr.
Olsen cease questioning me and call
the police. I was detained in the man-
ager’s office until Mr. Harrison ar-
rived.”

Rider stewed it over, then ?'- 1 -ed,
"Did the same pair of guards accom-
pany Letheren both times?”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

I don't know. I did not see his
escort on either occasion."

"You mean he came unguarded?”
"They are not always visible to the
batik’s staff,” Harrison put in. "I’ve
chased that lead to a dead end.”
"How much did you learn on the
way?”

"The guards deliberately vary
their routine so as to make their
behavior unpredictable to anyone
planning a grab. Sometimes both ac-
company the cashier to the counter
and back. Sometimes they wait out-
side the main door, watching the
street. Other times one remains in
the car while the other mooches up
and down near the bank.”

"They are armed, I take it?”

"Of course.” He eyed Rider quiz-
zically. "Both guards swear that last
Friday morning they escorted Leth-
eren to the bank once and only once.
That was at five to eleven.”

"But he was there at ten-thirty,”
Ashcroft protested.

"He denies it,” said Harrison. "So
do the guards.”

"Did the guards say they’d actually
entered the bank?” inquired Rider,
sniffing around for more contradic-
tory evidence.

"They did not enter on arrival.
They hung around outside the front
door until Letheren’s delay made
them take alarm. At that point they
went inside with guns half-drawn.
Ashcroft couldn’t see them because
by then he was on the carpet in
Olsen's office.”

"Well, you can see how it is,”

commented Rider, staring hard at the
unhappy Ashcroft. "You say Leth-
eren got the money at ten-thirty. He
says he did not. The statements are
mutually opposed. Got any ideas on
that?”

"You don’t believe me, do you?”
said Ashcroft, miserably.

"I don’t disbelieve you, either. I’m
keeping judgment suspended. We’re
faced with a flat contradiction of
evidence. It doesn’t follow that one
of the witnesses is a liar and thus
a major suspect. Somebody may be
talking in good faith but genuinely
mistaken.”

"Meaning me?”

"Could be. You’re not infallible.
Nobody is.” Rider leaned forwVrd,
gave emphasis to his tones. "LeV’s
accept the main points at face value.
If you’ve told the truth, the cash
was collected at ten-thirty. If Leth-
eren has told the truth, he was not
the collector. Add those up and what
do you get? Answer: the money was
toted away by somebody who was
not Letheren. And if that answer
happens to be correct, it means that
you’re badly mistaken.”

"I’ve made no mistake,” Ashcroft
denied. ”1 know what I saw. I saw
Letheren and nobody else. To say
otherwise is to concede that I can',
trust the evidence of my own eyes.”
"You’ve conceded it already,”
Rider pointed out.

"Oh, no I haven’t.”

"You told us that you watched
him sign the receipt slip. With your
own two eyes you saw him append
his signature.” He waited for com-

LEGWORK

ment that did not come, ended,
"There was nothing on the slip.”

Ashcroft brooded in glum silence.

"If you were deluded about the
writing, you could be equally deluded
about the writer.”

"I don’t suffer from delusions.”

"So it seems,” said Rider, dry-
voiced. "How do you explain that
receipt?”

"I don’t have to,” declared Ash-
croft with sudden spirit. "I've given
the facts. It’s for you fellows to find
the explanation."

"That’s right enough,” Rider
agreed. "We don’t resent being re-
minded. I hope you don't resent
being questioned again and again.
Thanks for coming along.”

"Glad to be of help.” He went
out, obviously relieved by the end of
the inquisition.

Harrison found a toothpick, chew-
ed it, said, "It’s a heller. Another
day or two of this and you’ll be sorry
they sent you to show me how.”

Meditatively studying the police
chief, Rider informed, "I didn’t
come to show you how. I came to
help because you said you needed
help. Two minds are better than one.
A hundred minds are better than ten.
But if you’d rather I beat it back
home — ■”

"Nuts,” said Harrison. "At times
like this I sour up on everyone. My
position is different from yours.
When someone takes a bank, right
under my nose, he’s made a chump
of me. How’d you like to be both
a police chief and a chump?”

"I think I’d accept the latter’ defi-
nition when and only when I’d been
compelled to admit defeat. Are you
admitting it?”

"Not on your life.”

"Quit griping then. Let’s concen-
trate on the job in hand. There’s
something mighty fishy about this
business of the receipt. It looks cock-
eyed.”

"It’s plain as pie to me,” said
Harrison. "Ashcroft was deluded or
tricked.”

"That isn't the point,” Rider told
him. "The real puzzle is that of why
he was outsmarted. Assuming that
he and Letheren are both innocent,
the loot was grabbed by someone
else, by somebody unknown. I don’t
see any valid reason why the culprit
should risk bollixing the entire set-up
by handing in a blank receipt that
might be challenged on the spot. All
he had to do to avoid it was to scrawl
Letheren’s name. Why didn’t he?”

Harrison thought it over. "Maybe
he feared Ashcroft would recognize
the signature as a forgery, take a
closer look at him and yell bloody
murder.”

"If he could masquerade as Leth-
eren well enough to get by, he
should have been able to imitate a
signature well enough to pass scru-
tiny.”

"Well, maybe he didn’t sign be-
cause he couldn’t,” Harrison ven-
tured, "not being able to write. I
know of several hoodlums who can
write only because they got taught in
the jug.”

"You may have something there,”
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

Rider conceded. "Anyway, for the
moment Ashcroft and Letheren ap-
pear to be the chief suspects. They’ll
have to be eliminated before we
start looking elsewhere. I presume
you’ve already checked on both of
them?”

"And how!" Harrison used the
desk-box. "Send in the First Bank
file.” When it came, he thumbed
through its pages. "Take Ashcroft
first. Financially well-fixed, no crim-
inal record, excellent character, no
motive for turning bank robber.
Jackson, the junior teller, confirms
his evidence to a limited extent.
Ashcroft could not have hidden the
Dakin consignment any place. We
searched the bank from top to bot-
tom, during which time Ashcroft
did not leave the place for one min-
ute. We found nothing. Subsequent
investigation brought out other items
in his favor . . . I'll give you the
details later on.”

"You’re satisfied that he is inno-
cent?”

"Almost, but not quite,” said Har-
rison. "He could have handed the
money to an accomplice who bears
superficial resemblance to Letheren.
That tactic would have finagled the
stuff dean out of the bank. I wish
I could shake down his home in
search of his split. One bill with
a known number would tie him
down but good.” His features became
disgruntled, "judge Maxon refused
to sign a search warrant on grounds
of insufficient justification. Said he’s
got to be shown better cause for

LEGWORK

reasonable suspicion. I’m compelled
to admit that he’s right.”

"How about the company’s cash-
ier, Letheren?"

"He’s a confirmed bachelor in the
late fifties. I won’t weary you with
his full background. There’s noth-
ing we can pin on him.”

"You’re sure of that?”

"Judge for yourself. The com-
pany’s car remained parked outside
the office all morning until ten thirty-
five. It was then used to take Leth-
eren and his guards to the bank.
It couldn’t reach the bank in less
than twenty minutes. There just was-
n’t enough time for Letheren to make
the first call in some other car, return
to the plant, pick up the guards and
make the second call.''

"Not to mention hiding the loot
in the interim,” Rider suggested.

"No, he could not have done it.
Furthermore, there are forty people
in the Dakin office and between them
they were able to account for every
minute of Letheren’s time from when
he started work at nine o’clock up to
when he left for the bank at ten
thirty-five. No prosecutor could bust
an alibi like that!”

"That seems to put him right out
of the running.”

Harrison scowled and said, "It
certainly does — but we've since found
five witnesses who place him near
the bank at ten-thirty.”

"Meaning they support the state-
ments of Ashcroft and Jackson?”
"Yes, they do. Immediately after
the case broke I put every available

man onto the job of asking ques-
tions the whole length of the street
and down the nearest side-streets.
The usual lousy legwork. They found
three people prepared to swear they’d
seen Letheren entering the bank at
ten-thirty. They didn’t know him by
sight, but they were shown Leth-
eren’s photograph and identified
him.”

"Did they notice his car and give
its description?”

"They didn’t see him using a car.
He was on foot at the time and
carrying the bag. They noticed and
remembered him only because a mutt-
yelped and went hell-for-lcather
down the street. They wondered
whether he’d kicked it and why.”
"Do they say he did kick it?”
"No.”

Rider thoughtfully rubbed two
chins. "Then I wonder why it be-
haved like that. Dogs don’t yelp and
bolt for nothing. Something must
have hurt or scared it.”

"Who cares?” said Harrison, hav-
ing worries enough. "The boys also
found a fellow who says he saw
Letheren a few minutes later, com-
ing out of the bank and still with
the bag. He didn’t notice any guards
hanging around. He says Letheren
started walking along the street as
though he hadn’t a care in the world,
but after fifty yards he picked up a
prowling taxi and rolled away.”
"You traced the driver?”

"We did. He also recognized the
photo we showed him. Said he’d
taken Letheren to the Cameo Theater
on Fourth Street, but did not sec him

actually enter the place. Just dropped
him, got paid and drove off. We
questioned the Cameo’s staff, search-
ed the house. It got us nowhere,
There’s a bus terminal nearby. We
gave everyone there a rough time
and learned nothing.”

"And that’s as far as you’ve been
able to take it?”

"Not entirely. I've phoned the
Treasury, given them the numbers
of forty bills. I’ve put out an eight-
state alarm for a suspect answering
to Letheren’s description. Right now
the boys are armed with copies of
his pic and are going the rounds of
hotels and rooming houses. He must
have holed up somewhere and it
could have been right in this town.
Now I’m stuck. I don’t know where
to look next.”

Rider lay back in his chair which
creaked in protest. He mused quite
a time while Harrison slowly masti-
cated the toothpick.

Then he said, "Excellent charac-
ter, financial security and no appar-
ent motive are things less convincing
than the support of other witnesses.
A man can have a secret motive
strong enough to send him right
off the rails. He could be in desper-
ate need of ten or twelve thousand
in ready cash merely because he’s got
to produce it a darned sight quick-
er than he can raise it by legitimate
realization of insurance, stocks and
bonds. For example, what if he’s got
twenty-four hours in which to find
ransom money?”

Harrison popped his eyes. "You
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

think we should check on Ashcroft’s
and Letheren’s kin and see if any
one of them is missing or has been
missing of late?”

"Please yourself. Personally, I
doubt that it’s worth the bother. A
kidnaper risks the death penalty.
Why should he take a chance like
that for a measly twelve thousand
when he endangers himself no more
by sticking a fatter victim for a far
bigger sum? Besides, even if a check
did produce a motive it wouldn’t tell
us how the robbery was pulled or
enable us to prove it to the satisfac-
tion of a judge and jury.”

"That's right enough,” Harrison
agreed. "All the same, the check is
worth making. It’ll cost me nothing.
Except for Ashcroft’s wife, the rela-
tives of both men live elsewhere. It’s
just a matter of getting the co-opera-
tion of police chiefs.”

"Do it if you wish. And while
we’re making blind passes in the
dark, get someone to find out wheth-
er Letheren happens to be afflicted
with a no-good brother who could
exploit a close family likeness. Maybe
Letheren is the suffering half of a
pair of identical twins.”

"If he is,” growled Harrison, "he’s
also an accessory after the fact be-
cause he can guess how the job was
done and who did it, but he’s kept
his lips buttoned.”

"That’s the legal viewpoint.
There’s a human one as well. If one
feels disgrace, one doesn’t invite it.
If you had a brother with a record
as long as your arm, would you
advertise it all over town?”

"For the fun of it, no. In the
interests of justice, yes.”

"All men aren’t alike and thank
God they’re not.” Rider made an
impatient gesture. "We’ve gone as
far as we can with the two obvious
suspects. Let’s work out what we can
do with a third and unknown one.”

Harrison said, "I told you I’ve
sent out an alarm for a fellow an-
swering to Letheren’s description.”

"Yes, I know. Think it will do any
good ?”

"It’s hard to say. The guy may be
a master of make-up. If so, he’ll now
look a lot different from the way he
did when he pulled the job. If the
resemblance happens to be real, close
and unalterable, the alarm may help
nail him.”

"That’s true. However, unless
there’s an actual blood relationship — ■
which possibility you’re following up
anyway — the likeness can hardly be
genuine. It would be too much of a
coincidence. Let’s say it’s artificial.
What does that tell us?”

"It was good,” Harrison respond-
ed. "Good enough to fool several
witnesses. Far too good for com-
fort.”

"You said it,” indorsed Rider.
"What’s more, an artist so excep-
tionally accomplished could do it
again and again and again, •working
his way through a series of personal-
ities more or less of his physical
build. Therefore he may really look
as much like Letheren as I look like
a performing seal. We haven’t his
true description and the lack is a

LEGWORK

severe handicap. Offhand, I can
think of no way of discovering what
he looks like right now."

"Me neither,” said Harrison, be-
coming roorbid.

"There’s one chance we’ve got,
though. Ten to one his present ap-
pearance is the same as it was before
he worked his trick. He’d no reason
to disguise himself while casing the
job and fnaking his plans. The rob-
bery was so smooth and well-timed
that it rhust have been schemed to
perfection. That kind of planning
requires plenty of preliminary ob-
servation- He could not cotton onto
Dakin’s collecting habits and Leth-
eren’s appearance at one solitary go.
Not unless he was a mind reader.”
"I don’t believe in mind readers,"
Harrison declared. "Nor astrologers,
swamis t>r any of their ilk.”

Ignoring it, Rider ploughed stub-
bornly on, "So for some time prior
to the robbery he had a hideout in
this town or fairly dose to it. Fifty
or more people may have seen him
repeatedly and be able to describe
him. Yonr boys won't find him by
circling the dives and dumps and
showing a photo, because he didn't
look like the photo. The problem
now is to discover the hideout, learn
what he looked like.

"Easier said than done.”

"It’s b ar d sledding, chief, but let’s
keep at it. Eventually we’ll get our-
selves somewhere even if only into
a padded cell.”

He lapsed into silence, thinking
deeply. Harrison concentrated atten-

tion on the ceiling. They did not
know fit, but they were employing
Earth’s on-the-spot substitute for a
rare flash of genius. A couple of
times Rider opened his mouth as if
about to say something, changed his
mind, resumed his meditating.

In the end. Rider said, "To put
over so convincingly the gag that he
was Letheren he must not only have
looked like him but also dressed
like him, walked like him, behaved
like him, smelled like him.”

"He was Letheren to the spit,” an-
swered Harrison. "I’ve questioned
Ashcroft until we’re both sick of it.
Every single detail was Letheren
right down to his shoes.”

Rider asked, "How about the
bag?”

"The bag?” Harrison’s lean face
assumed startlement followed by self-
reproach. "You’ve got me there. I
didn’t ask about it. I slipped up.”
"Not necessarily. There may be
nothing worth learning. We’d better
be sure on that point.”

"I can find out right now.” He
picked up the phone, called a num-
ber, said, "Mr. Ashcroft, I’ve an-
other question for you. About that
bag you put the money into — was it
the actual one always used by the
Dakin people?”

The voice came back distinctly,
"No, Mr. Harrison, it was a new
one.”

"What?” Harrison’s face purpled
as he bellowed, "Why didn’t you
say so at the start?”

"You didn’t ask me and, there-
fore, I didn’t think of it. Even if I

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

had thought of it of my own accord
i wouldn’t have considered it of any
importance.”

"Listen, it’s for me and not for
you to decide what evidence is, or
is not, important.” He fumed a bit,
threw the listening Rider a look of
martyrdom, went on in tones edged
with irritation. "Now' let’s get this
straight, once and for all. Apart from
being new, was the bag identically
the same as the one Dakin uses?”

"No, sir. But it w'as very similar.
Same type, same brass lock, same
general appearance. It was slightly
longer and about an inch deeper. I

remember that when 1 was putting
the money into it I wondered why
they’d bought another bag and con-
cluded that the purpose was to let
Mr. Letheren and Mr. Sw'ain have
one each.”

"Did you notice any distinguish-
ing mark upon it, a price tag, a
maker’s sticker, initials, code letters,
serial number, or anything like that?”
"Nothing at all. It didn’t occur
to me to look. Not knowing what
was to come, I — ”

The voice cut off in mid-sentence
as Harrison i refill iy slammed down

LEGWORK

the phone. He stared hard at Rider
■who said nothing.

"For your information,” Harrison
told him, "I can say that there are
distinct advantages in taking up the
profession of latrine attendant. Some-
times I am sorely tempted.” He
breathed heavily, switched the desk-
box. "Who’s loafing around out
there?”

Somebody replied, "It’s Kastner,
chief.”

"Send him in.”

Detective Kastner entered. He
was a neatly attired individual who
had the air of knowing how to get
around in a sink of iniquity.

"Jim,” ordered Harrison, "beat it
out to the Dakin plant and borrow
their cash-bag. Make Certain it’s the
one they use for weekly collections.
Take it to every store selling leather
goods and follow up every sale of
a similar bag within the last month.
If you trace a purchaser, make him
prove that he still possesses his bag,
get him to say where he was and
what he was doing at ten-thirty last
Friday morning.”

"Right, chief.”

"Phone me the details if you latch
onto anything significant.”

After Kastner had gone, Harrison
said, "That bag was bought specifi-
cally for the job. Therefore, the pur-
chase is likely to be a recent one and
probably made in this town. If we
can’t trace a sale through local stores,
we’ll inquire farther afield.”

"You do that,” Rider agreed.
“Meanwhile, I'll take a couple of
steps that may help.”

"Such as what?”

"We’re a scientific species, living
in a technological age. We’ve got
extensive, well-integrated communi-
cations networks and huge, informa-
tive filing systems. Let’s use what
we’ve got, eh?”

"What’s on your mind?” Harrison
asked.

Rider said, "A robbery so smooth,
neat and easy is something that begs
to be repeated ad lib. Maybe he’s
done it before. There’s every likeli-
hood that he’ll do it again.”

"So—?”

"We have his description, but it
isn’t worth mu.ch.” He leaned for-
ward. "We also have full details of
his method and those are reliable.

"Yes, that’s true.”

"So let’s boil down his descrip-
tion to the unalterable basics of
height, weight, build, color of eyes.
The rest can be ignored. Let’s also
condense his technique, reduce it to
the bare facts. We can summarize
the lot in five hundred words."

"And then?”

"There are six thousand two hun-
dred eighty banks in this country, of
which slightly more than six thou-
sand belong to the Bank Associa-
tion. I’ll get Washington to run off
enough handbills for the Association
to send its entire membership.
They’ll be put on guard against a
similar snatch, asked to rush us full
details if any get taken despite the
warning or already had been taken
before they got it.”

"That’s a good idea,” Harrison

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

approved, "Some other police chief
may nurse a couple of items that we
lack, while we’re holding a couple
that he wants. A get-together may
find us holding enough to solve both
cases.”

"There’s a slight chance that we
can take it farther still,” said Rider.
"The culprit may have a record. If
he has not, we’re out of luck. But
if he’s done it before, and been
pinched, we can find his card in no
time at all.” He pondered reminis-
cently, added, "That filing system in
Washington is really something.”

"I know of it, of course, but
haven’t seen it,” Harrison com-
mented.

"Friend of mine down there, a
postal inspector, found it handy not
long ago. He was hunting a fellow
selling fake oil stock through the
mails. This character had taken at
least fifty suckers by means of some
classy print-work including official
looking reserve reports, certificates
and other worthless documents.
There was no description of him.
Not a victim had seen him in the
flesh.”

"That’s not much to go on.”

"No, but it was enough. Attempts
by postal authorities to trap him had
failed. He was a wily bird and that
in itself was a clue. Obviously he
was a swindler sufficiently experi-
enced to have a record. So this friend
took what little he'd got to the
F.B.I.”

"What happened?”

"A modus operand i expert coded
the data and fed it into the high-

speed extractor, like giving the scent
to a hound. Electronic fingers raced
over slots and punch-holes in a mil-
lion cards a darned sight faster than
you could blow your nose. Rejecting
muggers, laeistmen and various
toughies, the fingers dug out maybe
four thousand confidence tricksters.
From those they then extracted per-
haps six hundred bond-pushers. And
from those they picked a hundred
who specialized in phony oil stocks.
And from those they took twelve
who kept out of sight by operating
through the mails.”

"That narrowed it down,” Harri-
son conceded.

"The, machine ejected twelve
cards,” Rider continued. "An extra
datum might have enabled it to throw
out one and only one. But that was
as far as it could go; it couldn't use
what it hadn’t been given. Not that
it mattered. A quick check of other
records showed that four of the
twelve were dead and six more were
languishing in the clink. Of the re-
maining two, one was picked up,
proved himself in the clear. That left
the last fellow. The postal authorities
now had his name, mug-shot, prints,
habits, associates and everything but
his mother’s wedding certificate. They
grabbed him within three weeks.”

"Nice work. Only thing I don’t
understand is why they keep dead
men’s cards on file.”

"That’s because evidence comes up
— sometimes years later — proving
them responsible for old, unsolved
crimes. The evil that men do lives
after them; the good, if any, is in-

LEGWORK

terred with their bones.” He eyed
the other, ended, "The slaves of the
filing system don’t like cases left
open and unfinished. They like to
mark them dosed even if it takes
half a lifetime. They’re tidy-minded,
see?”

"Yes, I see.” Harrison thought a
while, remarked, "You'd think a
criminal would go honest once on
the files, or at least have the sense
not to repeat.”

"They always repeat. They get in
a rut and can’t jack themselves out
of it. I never heard of a counter-
feiter who turned gunman or bicycle
thief. This fellow we’re after will
pull the same stunt again by sub-
stantially the same method. You wait
and see.” He signed to the phone.
"Mind if I make a couple of long-
distance calls?”

"Help yourself. I don’t pay for
them.”

"In that case I'll have three. The
little woman is entitled to some vocal
fondling.”

"Go right ahead.” Registering dis-
gust, Harrison heaved himself erect,
went to the door. "I’ll get busy some
place else. If one thing turns my
stomach, it’s the spectacle of a big
man cooing a lot of slop.”

Grinning to himself, Rider picked
up the phone. "Get me the United
States Treasury, Washington, Exten-
sion 417, Mr. O’Keefe.”

Over the next twenty-four hours
the steady, tiresome but determined
pressure of Earth technique was
maintained. Patrolmen asked ques-

tions of store owners, local gossips,
tavern keepers, parolees, stool pi-
geons, any and every character who
by remote chance might give with
a crumb of worthwhile information.
Plainclothes detectives knocked on
doors, cross-examined all who re-
sponded, checked back later on any
who’d failed to answer. State troop-
ers shook down outlying motels and
trailer parks, quizzed owners, man-
agers, assistants. Sheriffs and deputies
visited farms known to take occa-
sional roomers.

In Washington, six thousand leaf-
lets poured from a press while not
far away another machine addressed
six thousand envelopes. Also nearby,
electronic fingers sought a specific
array of holes and slots among a
million variously punched cards.
Police of half a dozen towns and
cities loped around, checked on cer-
tain people, phoned their findings
to Northwood, then carried on with
their own work.

As usual, first results were repre-
sented by a stack of negative infor-
mation. None of Ashcroft’s relatives
were missing or had been of late.
There was no black sheep in Leth-
eren’s family, he had no twin, his
only brother was ten years younger,
was highly respected, bore no strik-
ing likeness and, in any case, had an
unbreakable alibi.

No other bank had yet reported
being soaked by an expert masquer-
ader. Rooming houses, hotels and
other possible hideouts failed to pro-
duce a clue to anyone resembling
Letheren’s photograph.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

The silent searcher through the
filing system found forty-one bank
swindlers, living and dead. But not
one with the same modus operand i
or anything closely similar. Regret-
fully it flashed a light meaning, "No
record."

However, from the deductive view-
point enough negatives can make a
few positives. Harrison and Rider
stewed the latest news, came to the
same conclusions. Ashcroft and Leth-
eren were well-nigh in the clear. The
unknown culprit was a newcomer to
crime and his first success would in-
duce him to do it again. Such a
master of make-up had previously
concealed himself under some iden-
tity other than that now being sought.

First break came in the late after-
noon. Kastner walked in, tipped his
hat onto the back of his head and
said, "I may have something.”

"Such as what?” asked Harrison,
his features alert.

"There’s no great demand for that
particular kind of bag and only one
store sells them in this town. Within
the last month they’ve got rid of
three.”

"Paid for by check?”

"Cash on the nail.” Kastner re-
sponded with a grim smile to the
other’s look of disappointment, svent
on, "But two of the buyers were local
folk, recognized and known. Both
made their purchases about three
weeks ago. I chased them up. They’ve
still got their bags and can account
for their time last Friday morning,
fve checked their stories and they
hold good and tight.”

"How about the third buyer?”
"That’s what I'm coming to, chief.
He looks good to me. He bought his
bag the afternoon before the robbery.
Nobody knows him.”

"A stranger?”

"Not quite. I got a detailed de-
scription of him from Hilda Cassidy,
the dame who waited on him. She
says he was a middle-aged, thin-
faced, meek sort of character with a
miserable expression. Looked like an
unhappy embalmer.”

"Then what makes you say he’s
not quite a stranger?”

"Because, chief, there are eleven
stores selling leather goods of one
kind or another. I’ve lived here
quite a piece, but I had to hunt
around to find the one handling this
kind of bag. So I figured that this
miserable guy would have had to do
some going the rounds, too. I tried
all the stores a second time, giving
them this new description.”

"And — ?”

"Three of them remembered this
fellow looking for what they don’t
stock. All confirmed the description.”
He paused, added, "Sol Bergman, of
the Travel Mart, says the guy’s face
was slightly familiar. Doesn’t know
who he is and can’t make a useful
guess. But he's sure he’s seen him
two or three times before.”

"Maybe an occasional visitor from
somewhere a good way out.”

"That’s how it looks to me, chief.”
"A good way out means anywhere
within a hundred-mile radius,”
growled Harrison. "Perhaps even
farther.” He eyed Kastner sourly.

LEGWORK

"Who got the longest and closest
look at him?”

“The Cassidy girl.”

“You’d better bring her in, and
fast.”

“I did bring her. She’s waiting
outside.”

“Good work, Jim,” approved Har-
rison, brightening. “Let’s see her.”

Kastner went out and brought her
in. She was a tall, slender, intelligent
person in the early twenties. Cool
and composed, she sat with hands
folded in her lap, answered Harri-
son’s questions while he got the
suspect’s description in as complete
detail as she was able to supply.

“More darned legwork,” Harrison
complained as she finished. "Now the
boys will have to make all the rounds
again looking for a lead on this guy.”
Rider chipped in, "If he’s an out-
of-towner, you’ll need the co-opera-
tion of all surrounding authorities.”
“Yes, of course.”

"Maybe we can make it lots easier
for them.” He glanced inquiringly
across the desk toward the girl.
"That is, if Miss Cassidy will help.”
“I’ll do anything I can,” she as-
sured.

“What’s on your mind?” Harri-
son asked.

“We’ll get Roger King to lend
a hand.”

“Who’s he?”

“A staff artist. Does cartoon work
on the side. He’s good, very good.”
He switched attention to the girl.
“Can you come round early and
spend the morning here?”

“If the boss will let me.”

“He will,” put in Harrison. "I'll
see to that.”

“All right,” said Rider to the
girl. “You come round. Mr. King
will show you a number of photo-
graphs. Look through them carefully
and pick out distinguishing features
that correspond with those of the
man who bought that bam A chin
here, a mouth there, a nose some-
where else. Mr. King will make a
composite drawing from them and
will keep altering it in accordance
with your instructions until he’s got
it right. Think you can do that?”

"Oh, sure,” she said.

"We can do better,” Kastner an-
nounced. “Sol Bergman is the eager-
beaver type. He’ll be tickled to death
to assist.”

"Then get him to come along,
too.”

Kastner and the girl departed as
Rider said to Harrison, “Know a
local printer who can run off a batch
of copies within a few hours?”

“You bet I do.”

“Good!” He gestured to the
phone. "Can I hoist the bill another
notch?”

“For all I care you can make the
mayor faint at the sight of it,” said
Harrison. “But if you intend to pour
primitive passion through the line,
say so and let me get out.”

“Not this time. She may be pining
somewhat, but duty comes first.” He
took up the instrument. "Treasury
Headquarters, Washington, Exten-
sion 338. I want Roger King.”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

Copies of the King sketch were
mailed out along with a description
and pick-up request. They had not
been delivered more than a few min-
utes when the phone whirred and
Harrison grabbed it: "Northwood
police.”

''This is the State Police Barracks,
Sergeant Wilkins speaking. We just
got that 'Wanted' notice of yours.
I know that fellow. He lives right
on my beat.”

"Who is he?”

"Name of William Jones. Runs
a twenty-acre nursery on Route Four,
a couple of hours’ away from your
town. He’s a slightly surly type, but
there’s nothing known against him.
My impression is that he’s pessimistic
but dead straight. You want us to
pick him up?”

"Look, are you sure he’s the fel-
low?”

"It’s his face on that drawing of
yours and that’s as far as I go. I’ve
been in the business as long as you,
and I don’t make mistakes about
faces.”

"Of course not, sergeant. We’d
appreciate it if you’d bring him in
for questioning.”

"I’ll do that.”

He cut off. Harrison lay back,
absently studied his desk while his
mind juggled around with this latest
news.

After a while, he said, "I could
understand it better if this Jones was
described as a one-time vaudeville
actor such as a quick-change impres-
sionist. A fellow operating a nursery
out in the wilds sounds a bit of a

hick to me. Somehow I can’t imagine
him doing a bank job as slick as this
one.”

"He might be just an accomplice.
He got the bag beforehand, hid the
cash afterward, perhaps acted as
lookout man while the robbery was
taking place.”

Harrison nodded. "We’ll find out
once he’s here. He’ll be in trouble
if he can’t prove he made an inno-
cent purchase.”

"What if he does prove it?”

"Then we’ll be right back where
we started." Harrison gloomed at the
thought of it. The phone called for
attention and he snatched it up.
"Northwood police.”

"Patrolman Clinton here, chief.
I just showed that drawing to Mrs.
Bastico. She has a rooming house at
157 Stevens. She swears that guy is
William Jones who roomed with her
ten days. He came without luggage
but later got a new bag like the
Dakin one. Saturday morning he
cleared out, taking the bag. He’d
overpaid by four days’ .rent, but he
beat it without a word and hasn’t
come back.”

"You stay there, Clinton. We’ll
be right out.” He licked anticipatory
lips, said to Rider, "Come on, let’s
get going.”

Piling into a cruiser, they raced to
157 Stevens. It was a dilapidated
brownstone with well-worn steps.

Mrs. Bastico, a heavy featured
female with several warts, declaimed
in self-righteous tones, "I’ve never
had the cops in this house. Not once
in twenty years.”

LEGWORK

"You’ve got ’em now,” informed
Harrison. "And it gives the place
a touch of respectability. Now, what
d’you know about this Jones fellow?”
"Nothing much,” she answered,
still miffed. "He kept to himself.
I don’t bother roomers who be-
have.”

"Did he say anything about where
he’d come from, or where he was
going to, or anything like that?”
"No. He paid in advance, told
me his name, said he was on local
business, and that was that. He went
out each morning, came back at a
decent hour each night, kept sober
and interfered with nobody.”

"Did he have any visitors?” He
extracted Letheren’s photograph.
"Someone like this, for example?”
"Officer Clinton showed me that
picture yesterday. I don’t know him.
I never saw Mr. Jones talking to an-
other person.”

"Hm-m-m!” Harrison registered
disappointment. "We’d like a look
at his room. Mind if we see it?”

Begrudgingly she led them up-
stairs, unlocked the door, departed
and left them to rake through it at
will. Her air was that of one allergic
to police.

They searched the room thorough-
ly, stripping bedclothes, shifting
furniture, lifting carpets, even un-
bolting and emptying the washbasin
waste-trap. It was Patrolman Clinton
who dug out of a narrow gap be-
tween floorboards a small, pink
transparent wrapper, also two pecul-
iar seeds resembling elongated al-

monds and exuding a strong, aro-
matic scent.

Satisfied that there was nothing
else to be found, they carted these
petty clues back to the station, mailed
them to the State Criminological
Laboratory for analysis and report.

Three hours afterward William
Jones walked in. He ignored Rider,
glowered at the uniformed Harrison,
demanded, "What’s the idea of hav-
ing me dragged here? I've done
nothing.”

"Then what have you got to worry
about?” Harrison assumed his best
tough expression. "Where were you
last Friday morning?”

"ThaL’s an easy one,” said Jones,
with a touch of spite. "I was in
Smoky Falls getting spares for a
cultivator.”

"That’s eighty miles from here.”
"So what? It’s a lot less from
where I live. And I can’t get those
spares any place nearer. If there's
an agent in Northw'ood, you find
him for me.”

"Never mind about that. How
long were you there?”

”1 arrived about ten in the morn-
ing, left in the mid-afternoon.”

"So it took you about five hours
to buy a few spares?”

”1 ambled around a piece. Bought
groceries as well. Had a meal there,
and a few drinks.”

"Then there ought to be plenty
of folk willing to vouch for your
presence there?”

"Sure are,” agreed Jones with dis-
concerting positiveness.

Harrison switched his desk-box,

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

said to someone, "Bring in Mrs.
Bastico, the Cassidy girl and Sol
Bergman.” He returned attention to
[ones. "Tell me exactly where you
went from time of arrival to depar-
ture, and who saw you in each place.”
He scribbled rapidly as the other
recited the tale of his Friday morn-
ing shopping trip. When the story
ended, he called the Smoky Falls
police, briefed them swiftly, gave
them the data, asked for a .complete
check-up.

Listening to this last, Jones show-
ed no visible alarm or apprehension.
"Can I go now? I got work to do.”
"So have I," Harrison retorted.
"Where have you stashed that leather
cash-bag?”

"What bag?”

"The new one you bought Thurs-
day afternoon.”

Eying him incredulously, Jones
said, "Hey, what are you trying to
pin on me? I bought no bag. Why
should I? I don’t need a new bag.”
"You'll be telling me next that
you didn’t hole-up in a rooming
house on Stevens.”

"I didn’t. I don’t know of any
place on Stevens. And if I did, I
wouldn’t be seen dead there.”

They argued about it for twenty
minutes. Jones maintained with
mulish stubbornness that he’d been
working on his nursery the whole
of Thursday and had been there most
of the time he was alleged to be at
the rooming house. He’d never heard
of Mrs. Bastico and didn't want to.
He’d never bought a Dakin-type bag.

They could search his place and wel-
come— if they found such a bag it’d
be because they’d planted it on him.

A patrolman stuck his head
through the doorway and announced,
"They’re here, chief.”

"All right. Get a line-up ready.”

After another ten minutes Harri-
son led William Jones into a back
room, stood him in a row consisting
of four detectives and half a dozen
nondescripts enlisted from the street.
Sol Bergman, Hilda Cassidy and Mrs.
Bastico appeared, looked at the
parade, pointed simultaneously and
in the same direction.

"That’s him,” said Mrs. Bastico.

"He’s the man,” indorsed the
Cassidy girl.

"Nobody else but,” Sol Bergman
confirmed.

"They’re nuts,” declared Jones,
showing no idea of what it was all
about.

Taking the three witnesses back
to his office, Harrison queried them
for a possible mistake in identity.
They insisted they were not mistaken,
that they could not be more positive.
William Jones was the man, definite-
ly and absolutely.

He let them go, held Jones on
suspicion pending a report from
Smoky Falls. Near the end of the
twenty-four hours legal holding limit
the result of the check came through.
No less than thirty-two people ac-
counted fully for the suspect’s time
all the way from ten to three-thirty.
Road-checks had also traced him all
the way to that town and all the way
back. Ocher witnesses had placed him

LEGWORK

at the nursery at several times when
he was, said to have been at Mrs.
Bastico's. State troopers had searched
the Jones property. No bag. No
money identifiable as loot.

"That’s torn it,” growled Harri-
son. "I’ve no choice but to release
him with abject apologies. What sort
of a lousy, stinking case is this, when
everybody mistakes everybody for
everybody else?”

Rider massaged two chins, suggest-
ed, "maybe we ought to try check-
ing on that as well. Let’s have an-
other word with Jones before you
let him loose.”

Slouching in, Jones looked con-
siderably subdued and only too will-
ing to help with anything likely to
get him home.

"Sorry to inconvenience you so
much, Mr. Jones,” Rider soothed.
"It couldn’t be avoided in the cir-
cumstances. We’re up against a
mighty tough problem.” Bending
forward, he fixed the other with an
imperative gaze. "It might do us
a lot of good if you’d think back
carefully and tell us if there’s any
time you’ve been mistaken for some-
body else.”

Jones opened his mouth, shut it,
opened it again. "Jeepers, that very
thing happened -about a fortnight

ag 0 -''

"Give us the story,” invited Rider,
a glint in his eyes.

"I drove through here nonstop and
went straight on to the city. Been
there about an hour when a fellow
yelled at me from across the street.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

I didn’t know him, thought at first
lie was calling someone else. He
meant me all right.”

"Go on,” urged Harrison, impa-
tient as the other paused.

"He asked me in a sort of dum-
founded way how I’d got there. I
said I’d come in my car. He didn’t
want to believe it.”

"Why not?”

"He said I'd been on foot and
thumbing a hitch. He knew it be-
cause he’d picked me up and run me
to Northwood. What’s more, he said,
after dropping me in Northwood
he’d driven straight to the city, going
so fast that nothing had overtaken
him on the way. Then he'd parked
his car, started down the street, and
the first thing he’d seen was me
strolling on the other side,”

"What did you tell him?”

"I said it couldn’t possibly have
been me and that his own story
proved it.”

"That fazed him somewhat, eh?”
"He got sort of completely baffled.
He led me right up to his parked car,
said, 'Mean to say you didn’t take
a ride in that?’ and, of course, I
denied it. 1 walked away. First I
thought it might be some kind of
gas;. Next, I wondered if he was
touched in the head.”

"Now,” put in Rider carefully,
"we must trace this fellow. Give us
all you’ve got on him.”

Thinking deeply, Jones said, "He
was in his late thirties, well-dressed,
smooth talker, the salesman type.
Had a lot of pamphlets, color charts
and paint cans in the back of his car.”

"You mean in the trunk compart-
ment? You got a look inside there?”
"No. They were lying on the rear
seat, as though he was in the habit
of grabbing them out in a hurry and
slinging them in again.”

"How about the car itself?”

"It was the latest model Flash,
duotone green, white sidewalls, a
radio. Didn't notice the tag num-
ber.”

They spent another ten minutes
digging more details regarding ap-
pearance, mannerisms and attire.
Then Harrison called the city police,
asked for a trace.

"The paint stores are your best
bet. He’s got all the looks of a
drummer making his rounds. They
should be able to tell you who
called on them that day.”

City police promised immediate
action. Jones went home, disgruntled,
but also vastly relieved. Within two
hours this latest lead had been ex-
tended. A call came from the city.

"Took only four visits to learn
what you want. That character is well
known to the paint trade. He’s Burge
Kimmelman, area representative of
Acme Paint & Varnish Company of
Marion, Illinois. Present whereabouts
unknown. His employers should be
able to find him for you.”

"Thanks a million!” Harrison dis-
connected, put through a call to Acme
Paint. He yapped a while, dumped
the phone, said to Rider, "He’s
somewhere along a route a couple
of hundred miles south. They’ll reach
him at his hotel this evening. He'll
get here tomorrow.”

LEGWORK

"Good.”

"Or is it?” asked Harrison, show-
ing a trace of bitterness. "We’re
sweating ourselves to death tracing
people and being led from one per-
sonality to another. That sort of thing
can continue to the crack of doom.”

"And it can continue until some-
thing else cracks,” Rider riposted.
"The mills of man grind slowly, but
they grind exceeding small.”

Elsewhere, seven hundred miles
westward, was another legworker.
Organized effort can be very formi-
dable but becomes doubly so when
it takes to itself the results of in-
dividual effort.

This character was thin-faced,
sharp-nosed, lived in an attic, ate m
an automat, had fingers dyed with
riicptine and for twenty years had
nursed the notion of writing the
Great American Novel but some-
how had never gotten around to it.

Name of Arthur Pilchard and,
therefore, referred to as Fish — a
press reporter. What is worse, a re-
porter on a harumscarum tabloid. He
was wandering past a desk when
somebody with ulcers and a sour
face shoved a slip of paper at him.

"Here, Fish. Another saucer nut.
Get moving!”

Hustling out with poor grace, he
reached the address given on the
slip, knocked on the door. It was
answered by an intelligent young
fellow in his late teens or early
twenties.

"You George Lamothe?”

"That’s me,” agreed the other.

"I’m from the Call. You told
them you’d got some dope on a
saucer. That right?”

Lamothe looked pained. "It’s not
a saucer and I didn't describe it as
such. It’s a spherical object and it’s
not a natural phenomenon.”

"I’ll take your word for it. When
and where did you see it?”

"Last night and the night before.
Up in the sky.”

"Right over this town?”

"No, but it is visible from here.”
"I’ve not seen it. So far as I know,
you’re the only one who has. How
d’you explain that?”

“It’s extremely difficult to sec with
the naked eye. I own an eight-inch
telescope.”

"Built it yourself?”

"Yes.”

"That takes some doing,” com-
mented Art Pilchard admiringly.
"How about showing it to me?”
Lamothe hesitated, said, "All
right,” led him upstairs. Sure enough
a real, genuine telescope was there,
its inquisitive snout tilted toward a
movable roof-trap.

"You’ve actually seen the object
through that?”

"Two successive nights,” Lamothe
confirmed. "I hope to observe it to-
night as well.”

"Any idea what it is?”

"That’s a matter of guesswork,”
evaded the other, becoming wary.
"All I’m willing to say is that it’s
located in a satellite orbit, it’s per-
fectly spherical and appears to be
an artificial construction of metal.”
"Got a picture of it?”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

"Sorry, I lack the equipment.’’
"Maybe one of our cameramen
could help you there.”

"If he has suitable apparatus,”
Lamothe agreed.

Pilchard asked twenty more ques-
tions, finished doubtfully, "What
you can see anyone else with a tele-
scope could see. The world’s full of
telescopes, some of them big enough
to drive a locomotive through. How
come nobody yet has shouted the
news? Got any ideas on that?”
With a faint smile, Lamothe said,
"Everyone with a telescope isn’t star-
ing through it twenty-four hours per
day. And even when he is using it
he’s likely to be studying a specific
area within the starfield. Moreover,
if news gets out it’s got to start
somewhere. That’s why I phoned the
Call."

"Dead right!” agreed Pilchard,
enjoying the savory odor of a minor
scoop.

"Besides,” Lamothe went on, "oth-
ers have seen it. I phoned three
astronomical friends last night. They
looked and saw it. A couple of them
said they were going to ring up
nearby observatories and draw at-
tention to it. I mailed a full report
to an observatory today, and another
to a scientific magazine.”

"Hells bells!” said Pilchard, get-
ting itchy feet. "I’d better rush this
before it breaks in some other rag.”
A fragment of suspicion came into
his face. "Not having seen this
spherical contraption myself, I’ll have
to check on it with another source.
By that, I don’t mean I think you’re

a liar. I have to check stories or find
another job. Can you give me the
name and address of one of these
astronomical friends of yours?”

Lamothe obliged, showed him to
the door. As Pilchard hastened down
the street toward a telephone booth,
a police cruiser raced up on the other
side. It braked outside Lamothe’s
house. Pilchard recognized the uni-
formed cop who was driving but not
the pair of burly men in plainclothes
riding with him. That was strange
because as a reporter of long stand-
ing he knew all the local detectives
and called them by their first names.
While he watched from a distance,
the two unknowns got out of the
cruiser, went to Lamothe’s door, rang
the bell.

Bolting round the corner, Pilchard
entered the booth, called long dis-
tance, rammed coins into the box.

"Alan Reed? My name’s Pilchard.
I write up astronomical stuff. I be-
lieve you’ve seen a strange metal
object in the sky. Hey?” He frown-
ed. "Don’t give me that! Your friend
George Lamothe has seen it, too. He
told me himself that he phoned you
about it last night.” He paused,
glowered at the earpiece. "Where's
the sense of repeating, 'No com-
ment,’ like a parrot? Look, either
you’ve seen it or you haven’t — and
so far you’ve not denied seeing it.”
Another pause, then in leery tones,
"Mr. Reed, has someone ordered you
to keep shut?”

He racked the phone, shot a wary
glance toward the corner, inserted

LEGWORK

more coins, said to somebody, "Art
here. If you want to feature this,
you’ll have to move damn fast.
You'll run it only if you're too quick
to be stopped.” He listened for the
click of the tape being linked in,
recited rapidly for five minutes.
Finishing, he returned to the corner,
looked along the street. The cruiser
was still there.

In a short time a flood of Calls
hit the streets. Simultaneously a long
chain of small-town papers took the
same news off their wire-service,
broke into a rash of two-inch head-
lines.

SPACE PLATFORM IN SKY.

OURS OR THEIRS?

Late in the following morning
Harrison ploughed doggedly through
routine work. At one side of his
office Rider sat with columnar legs
stretched straight out and read slow-
ly and carefully through a wad of
typed sheets.

The wad was the fruit of legwork
done by many men. It traced, with
a few gaps, the hour by hour move-
ments of one William Jones known
to be not the real William Jones.
He’d been seen wandering around
Northwood like a rubbernecking
tourist. He’d been seen repeatedly
on the main street and examining its
shops. He’d been seen in a super-
market around the time a customer’s
purse had been stolen. He’d eaten
meals in cafes and restaurants, drunk
beer in bars and taverns.

Ashcroft, Jackson and another
teller remembered a Joneslike stran-

ger making idle inquiries in the bank
during the week preceding the rob-
bery. Letheren and his guards recall-
ed the mirror-image of William Jones
hanging around when they made the
previous collection. Altogether, the
tediously gathered report covered
most of the suspect’s time in North-
wood, a period amounting to ten
days.

Finishing his perusal. Rider dosed
his eyes, mulled the details over and
over while his mind sought a new
lead. While he was doing this, a
muted radio sat on a ledge and
yammered steadily, squirting across
the office the reduced voice of an
indignant commentator.

"The whole world now knows
that someone has succeeded in estab-
lishing an artificial satellite up there
in the sky. Anyone with a telescope
or good binoculars can see it for
himself at night. Why, then, does
authority insist on pretending that
the thing doesn’t exist? If potential
enemies are responsible, let us be
told as much — the enemies already
know it, anyway. If we are responsi-
ble, if this is our doing, let us be
told as much — the enemies already
are grimly aware of it. Why must we
be denied information possessed by
possible foes? Does somebody think
we’re a bunch of irresponsible chil-
dren? Who are these brasshats who
assign to themselves the right to de-
cide what we may be told or not
told? Away with them! Let the gov-
ernment speak!”

"Yeah,” commented Harrison,
glancing up from his work, "I’m

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

with him there. Why don’t they say
outright whether it’s ours or theirs?
Some of those guys down your way
have a grossly exaggerated idea of
their own importance. A hearty kick
in the pants would do them a lot — ”
He shut up, grabbed the phone.
"Northwood police.” A weird series
of expressions crossed his lean fea-
tures as he listened. Then he racked
the phone, said, "It gets nuttier every
minute.”

"What’s it this time?”

"Those seeds. The laboratory can’t
identify them.”

"Doesn’t surprise me. They can’t
be expected to know absolutely every-
thing.”

"They know enough to know
when they’re stuck,” Harrison gave
back. "So they sent them to some
firm in New York where they know
everything knowable about seeds.
They’ve just got a reply.”

"Saying what?"

"Same thing — not identifiable.
New York went so far as to squeeze
out the essential oils and subject re-
maining solids to destructive distilla-
tion. Result: the seeds just aren’t
known.” He emitted a loud sniff,
added, "They want us to send them
another dozen so they can make them
germinate. They want to see what
comes up.”

"Forget it," advised Rider. "We
don’t have any more seeds and we
don’t know where to find ’em.”

"But we do have something
darned peculiar,” Harrison persisted.
"With those seeds we sent a pink,
transparent wrapper, remember? At

the time I thought it was just a piece
of colored cellophane. The lab says
it isn’t. They say it’s organic, cellular
and veined, and appears a subsec-
tion of the skin of an unknown
fruit.”

"... A tactic long theorized and
believed to be in secret develop-
ment,” droned the radio. “Whoever
achieves it first thereby gains a stra-
tegic advantage from the military
viewpoint.”

"Sometimes,” said Harrison, "I
wonder what’s the use of getting
born.”

His desk-box squawked and an-
nounced, "Fellow named Burge Kim-
melman waiting for you, chief.”

“Send him in.”

Kimmelman entered. He was dap-
per, self-assured, seemed to regard
his rush to the aid of the law as a
welcome change from the daily
round. He sat, crossed his legs, made
himself at home and told his story.

"It was the craziest thing, captain.
For a start, I never give rides to
strangers. But I stopped and picked
up this fellow and still can’t make
out why I did it.”

"Where did you pick him up?”
asked Rider.

"About half a mile this side of
Sceger’s filling station. He was wait-
ing by the roadside and first thing I
knew I'd stopped and let him get
in. I took him into Northwood,
dropped him, pushed straight on to
the city. I was in a hurry and moved
good and fast. When I got there
I walked out the car park and darned

LEGWORK

if he wasn't right there on the other
side of the street.” He eyed them,
seeking comment.

"Go on,” Rider urged.

"I picked on him then and there,
wanting to know how he’d beaten
me to it. He acted like he didn’t
know what I was talking about.” He
made a gesture of bafflement. "I’ve
thought it over a dozen times since
and can take it no further. I know
I gave a lift to that guy or his twin
brother. And it wasn’t his twin
brother because if he’d had one he’d
have guessed my mistake and said
so. But he said nothing. Just behaved
offishly polite like you do when faced
with a lunatic.”

"When you were giving him this
ride,” asked Harrison, "did he make
any informative remarks? Did he
mention his family, his occupation,
destination, or anything like that?
Did he tell you where he’d come
from?”

“Not a word worth a cent. So far
as I know he dropped straight out
of the sky.”

"So did everything else concerned
with this case,” remarked Harrison,
feeling sour again. "Unidentifiable
seeds and unknown fruit-skins
and — ” He stopped, let his mouth
hang open, popped his eyes.

"... A vantage-point from which
every quarter of the world would be
within effective range,” gabbled the
radio. "With such a base for guided
missiles it would be possible for one
nation to implement its policies in
a manner that — ”

Getting to his feet, Rider crossed

the room, switched off the radio,
said, "Mind waiting outside, Mr.
Kimmelman?” When the other had
gone, he continued with Harrison,
"Well, make up your mind whether
or not you’re going to have a stroke.”
Harrison shut his mouth, opened
it again, but no sound came out. His
eyes appeared to have protruded too
far to retract. His right hand made
a couple of meaningless gestures and
temporarily that was the most he
could manage.

Resorting to the phone. Rider got
his call through, said, "O’Keefe,
how's the artificial satellite business
down there?”

"You called just to ask that? I
was about to phone you myself.”
"What about?”

"Eleven of those bills have come
in. The first nine came from two
cities. The last pair were passed in
New York. Your man is moving
around. Bet you ten to one in coco-
nuts that if he takes another bank
it’ll be in the New York area.”
"That’s likely enough. Forget him
for a moment. I asked you about this
satellite rumpus. What’s the reaction
from where you’re sitting?”

"The place is buzzing like a dis-
turbed beehive. Rumor is rife that
professional astronomers saw and
reported the thing nearly a week
before the news broke. If that’s true,
somebody in authority must have
tried to suppress the information.”
"Why?”

"Don’t ask me,” shouted O’Keefe.

'How do I know why others do

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

things that make neither rhyme nor
reason?”

"You think they should say wheth-
er it’s ours or theirs seeing that the
truth is bound to emerge sooner or
later?”

"Of course. Why are you harping
on this subject, Eddie? What’s it
got to do with you, anyway?”

'Tve been made vocal by an idea
that has had the reverse effect on
Harrison. He’s struck dumb.”

"What idea?”

''That this artificial satellite may
not be an artificial satellite. Also
that authority has said nothing be-
cause experts are unwilling to com-
mit themselves one way or the other.
They can’t say something unless
they’ve something to say, can they?”

"I’ve got something to say,”
O'Keefe declared. "And that’s to
advise you to tend your own busi-
ness. If you’ve finished helping Har-
rison, quit lazing around and come
back.”

"Listen, I don’t call long-distance
for the fun of it. There's a thing up
in the sky and nobody knows what
it is. At the same lime another thing
i,s down here loping around and imi-
tating people, robbing banks, drop-
ping debris of alien origin, and no-
body knows what that is, either. Two
plus two makes four. Add it up for
yourself.”

"Eddie, are you cracked?”

"I'll give you the full details and
leave you to judge.” He recited them
swiftly, ended, "Use all your Treas-
ury pull to get the right people in-
terested. This case is far too big to

be handled by us alone. You’ve- got
to find the ones with enough power
and influence to cope. You’ve got to
kick ’em awake.”

He cut off, glanced at Harrison
who promptly got his voice back and
said, "I can’t believe it. It’s too far-
fetched for words. The day I tell the
mayor a Martian did it will be the
day Northwood gets a new chief.
He’ll take me away to have my head
examined.”

"Got a better theory?”

"No. That’s the hell of it.”

Shrugging expressively, Rider took
the phone again, made a call to Acme
Paint Company. That done, he sum-
moned Kimmelman.

"There’s a good chance that you’ll
be wanted here tomorrow and per-
haps for two or three days. I've just
consulted your employers and they
say you’re to stay with us.”

"Suits me,” agreed Kimmelman,
not averse to taking time off with
official approval. "I’d better go book
in at an hotel.”

"Just one question first. This
character you picked up — was he
carrying any luggage?”

"No.”

"Not even a small bag or a
parcel?”

"He’d nothing except what was in
his pockets,” said Kimmelman, posi-
tively.

A gleam showed in Rider’s eyes.
"Well, that may help.”

The mob that invaded Northwood
at noon next day came in a dozen
cars by devious routes and success-

LEGWORK

fully avoided the attention of the
press. They crammed Harrison’s of-
fice to capacity.

Among them was a Treasury top-
ranker, a general, an admiral, a Secret
Service chief, a Military Intelligence
brasshat, three area directors of the
F.B.I., a boss of the Counter Espio-
nage Service, all their aides, secre-
taries and technical advisers, plus a
bunch of assorted scientists includ-
ing two astronomers, one radar ex-
pert, one guided missiles expert and
a slightly bewildered gentleman who
was an authority on ants.

They listened in silence, some in-
terested, some skeptical, while Har-
rison read them a complete report of
the case. He finished, sat down,
waited for comment.

A gray-haired, distinguished indi-
vidual took the lead, said, "Personal-
ly, I'm in favor of your theory that
you're chasing somebody not of this

world. I don’t presume to speak for
others who may think differently.
However, it seems to me futile to
waste any time debating the matter.
It can be settled one way or the other
by catching the culprit. That, there-
fore, is our only problem. How are
we going to lay hands on him?"

"That won’t be done by the usual
methods,” said an F.B.I. director.
"A guy who can double as anyone,
and do it well enough to convince
even at close range, isn’t going to
be caught easily. We can hunt down
a particular identity if given enough
time. I don’t see how we can go
after somebody who might have any
identity.”

"Even an alien from another world
wouldn't bother to steal money un-
less he had a real need for it,” put
in a sharp-eyed individual. "The
stuff’s no use elsewhere in the cosmos.
So it’s safe to accept that he did have

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

need of it. But money doesn’t last
forever no matter who is spending it.
When he has splurged it all, he’ll
need some more. He’ll try robbing
another bank. If every bank in this
country were turned into a trap, sure-
ly one of them would snap down on
him.”

"How’ re you going to trap some-
body who so far as you know is your
best and biggest customer?” asked
the F.B.I. director. He put on a sly
grin, added, "Come to that, how do
you know that the fellow in question
isn’t me?”

Nobody liked this last suggestion.
They fidgeted uneasily, went quiet
as their minds desperately sought a
solution some place.

Rider spoke up. "Frankly, I' think
it a waste of time to search the world
for somebody who has proved his
ability to adopt two successive per-
sonalities and by the same token can
adopt two dozen or two hundred.
I’ve thought about this until I’ve
gone dizzy and I can’t devise any
method of pursuing and grabbing
him. He’s far too elusive.”

"It might help if we could learn
precisely how he does it,” interjected
a scientist. "Have you any evidence
indicative of his technique?”

"No, sir.”

"It looks like hypnosis to me,”
said the scientist.

"You may be right,” Rider ad-
mitted. "But so far we’ve no proof
of it.” He hesitated, went on, "As
I see it, there’s only one way to catch
him.”

"How?”

"It’s extremely unlikely that he’s
come here for keeps. Besides, there’s
that thing in the sky. What’s it wait-
ing for? My guess is that it’s waiting
to take him back whenever lie’s ready
to go.”

"So — ?” someone prompted.

"To take him back that sphere has
got to swing in from several thou-
sands of miles out. That means it
has to be summoned when wanted.
He’s got to talk to its crew, if it has
a crew. Or, if crewless, he’s got to
pull it in by remote control. Either
way, he must have some kind of
transmitter.”

"If transmission-time is too brief
to enable us to tune in, take cross-
bearings and get there — ” began an
objector.

Rider waved him down. "I’m not
thinking of that. We know he came
to Northwood without luggage. Kim-
melman says so. Mrs. Bastico says so.
Numerous witnesses saw him at vari-
ous times but he was never seen to
carry anything other than the cash-
bag. Even if an alien civilization can
produce electronic equipment one-
tenth the size and weight of anything
we can turn out, a long-range trans-
mitter would still be far too bulky
to be hidden in a pocket.”

"You think he’s concealed it some-
where?” asked the sharp-eyed man.

"I think it highly probable. If he
has hidden it, well, he has thereby
limited his freedom of action. He
can’t take off from anywhere in this
world. He’s got to return to wherever
he has stashed the transmitter.”

LEGWORK

"But that could be any place. It
leaves us no better off than before.”

"On the contrary!” He picked up
Harrison's report, read selected pas-
sages with added emphasis. "I may
be wrong. I hope I’m right. There’s
one thing he could not conceal no
matter what personality he assumed.
He could not conceal his behavior.
If he’d chosen to masquerade as an
elephant and then become curious,
he’d have been a very plausible ele-
phant — but still obviously curious.”

"What are you getting at?” de-
manded a four-star general.

"He was too green to have been
around long. If he’d had only a
couple, of days in some other town
or village, he’d have been a lot more
sophisticated when in Northwood.
Consider the reports on the way he
nosed : around. He was raw. He be-
haved liked somebody to whom
everything is new. If I’m right about
this, Northwood was his first port of
call. And that in turn means his
landing place — which is also his in-
tended take-off point — must be fairly
near, and probably nearer still to
where Kimmelman picked him up.”

They debated it for half an hour,
reached a decision. The result was
legwork on a scale that only high
authority can command. Kimmelman
drove nearly five miles out, showed
the exact spot and that became the
center of operations.

Attendants at Secger’s filling sta-
tion were queried extensively and
without result. Motorists known to
be regular users of the road, bus

drivers, truckers and many others to
whom it was a well-used route, were
traced and questioned. Dirt-farmers,
drifters, recluses, hoboes and every-
one else who lurked in the thinly
populated hills were found and
quizzed at length.

Four days hard work and num-
berless questionings over a circle ten
miles in diameter produced three
people who nursed the vague idea
that they’d seen something fall from
or rise into the sky about three weeks
ago. A farmer thought he’d seen a
distant saucer but had kept quiet for
fear of ridicule. Another believed
he had glimpsed a strange gleam of
light which soared from the hills
and vanished. A trucker had spotted
an indefinable object out the corner
of an eye but when he looked direct
it had none.

These three were made to take up
their respective points of observation,
sight through theodolites and line
the cross-hairs as nearly as they could
on the portions of skyline cogent to
their visions. All pleaded inability
to be accurate but were willing to
do their best.

The bearings produced an elon-
gated triangle that stretched across
most of a square mile. This at once
became the second focus of attention.
A new area two miles in radius was
drawn from the triangle's center.
Forthwith police, deputies, troopers,
agents and others commenced to
search the target foot by foot. They
numbered a small army and some of
them bore mine-detectors and other
metal-finding instruments.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

One hour before dusk a shout
drew Rider, Harrison and several
bigwigs to a place where searchers
were clustering excitedly. Somebody
had followed the faint t/ck-tlck of
his detector, lugged a boulder aside,
found a gadget hidden in the hol-
low behind it.

The tiring was a brown metal box
twelve inches by ten by eight. It had
a dozen silver rings set concentrically
in its top, these presumably being
the sky-beam antenna. Also four
dials ready set in various positions.
Also a small press-stud.

Experts knew exactly what to do,
having come prepared for it. They
color-photographed the box from
every angle, measured it, weighed it,
placed it back in its original position
and restored the boulder to its former
place.

Sharpshooters with night-glasses
and high-velocity rifles were posted
in concealed positions at extreme
range. While data on the superficial
appearance of the transmitter was
being rushed to the city, ground-
microphones were placed between
the hiding place and the road, their
hidden wires led back to where am-
bushers awaited stealthy footsteps
in the dark.

Before dawn, four searchlight
teams and half a dozen antiaircraft
batteries had taken up positions in
the hills and camouflaged themselves.
A command post had been estab-
lished in a lonely farmhouse and a
ground-to-air radio unit had been
shoved out of sight in its barn.

For anyone else a road-block set

up by tough cops would have served.
Not for this character who could be
anyone at all. He might, for all they
knew, appear in the dignified guise
of the Bishop of Miff. But if he
made for that transmitter and laid
hands on it —

A couple of days later a truck came
from the city, picked up the trans-
mitter, replaced it with a perfect
mock-up incapable of calling any-
thing out of the sky. This game of
imitation was one at which two could
pky.

Nobody got itchy fingers and
pressed the stud on the real instru-
ment. The time wasn't yet. So long
as the ship remained in the sky, so
long would its baffling passenger
enjoy a sense of false security and,
sooner or later, enter the trap.

Earth was willing to wait. It was
just as well. The biding-time lasted
four months.

A bank on Long Island got taken
for eighteen thousand dollars.' The
same technique; walk in, collect,
walk out, vanish. A high-ranking
officer made a tour of the Brooklyn
Navy Yard at a time w'hen he was
also attending a conference at New-
port News. An official inspected
television studios on the twentieth
to twenty-fifth floors of a skyscraper
while simultaneously tending to of-
fice work on the tenth floor. The in-
vader had now learned enough to
become impudent.

Blueprints were pored over, vaults
were entered, laboratories were exam-
ined. Steelworks and armaments

LEGWORK

plants got a careful, unhurried look-
over. A big machine-tool factory
actually had its works manager con-
duct a phony visitor around the plant
and provide technical explanations as
required.

It wasn't all plain sailing even for
someone well-nigh invincible. The
cleverest can make mistakes. Harasha
Vanash blundered when he flashed
a fat roll in a tavern, got followed
to his hide-out. Next day he went out
without being tailed and while he
was busily sneaking some more of
Earth's knowledge, somebody was
briskly plundering his room. He re-
turned to find the proceeds of his
last robbery had vanished. That
meant he had to take time off from
espionage to soak a third bank.

By August 21st he had finished.
He had concentrated his attention on
the most highly developed area in
the world and it was doubtful wheth-
er anything to be learned elsewhere
was sufficiently weighty to be worth
the seeking. Anyway, what he’d got
was enough for the purposes of the
Andromedans. Armed with all this
information, the hypnos of a two-
hundred-planet empire could step in
and take over another with no trouble
at all.

Near Seeger’s station he stepped
out of a car, politely thanked the
driver who was wondering why he’d
gone so far out of his way to oblige
a character who meant nothing to
him. He stood by the roadside, watch-
ed the car vanish into the distance.
It rocked along at top pace, as though
its driver was mad at himself.

Holding a small case stuffed with
notes and sketches, he studied the
landscape, saw everything as it had
been originally. To anyone within the
sphere of his mental influence he
was no more than a portly and some-
what pompous business man idly
surveying the hills. To anyone be-
yond that range he was made vague
by distance and sufficiently humanlike
to the naked eye to pass muster.

But to anyone watching through
telescopes and binoculars from most
of a mile away he could be seen for
what he really was — just a thing. A
thing not of this world. They could
have made a snatch at him then and
there. However, in view of the prep-
arations they’d made for him there
was, they thought, no need to bother.
Softly, softly, catchee monkey.

Tightly gripping the case, he hur-
ried away from the road, made
straight for the transmitter’s hiding
place. All he had to do was press
the stud, beat it back to Northwood,
enjoy a few quiet drinks in a tavern,
have a night’s sleep and come back
tomorrow. The ship would come in
along the transmitter’s beam, landing
here and nowhere else, but it would
take exactly eighteen hours and
twenty minutes to arrive.

Reaching the boulder, he had a
final wary glance around. Nobody
in sight, not a soul. He moved the
rock, felt mild relief when he saw
the instrument lying undisturbed.
Bending over it, he pressed the stud.

The result was a violent pouf! and
a cloud of noxious gas. That was

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

their mistake; they’d felt sure it
would lay him out for twenty-four
hours. It did not. His metabolism
was thoroughly alien and had its own
peculiar reaction. All he did was
retch and run like blazes.

Four men appeared from behind
a rock six hundred yards away. They
pointed guns, yelled to him to halt.
Ten more sprang out of the ground
on his left, bawled similar com-
mands. He grinned at them, show-
ing them the teeth he did not possess.

He couldn’t make them blow off
their own heads. But he could make
them do it for each other. Still going
fast, he changed direction to escape
the line of fire. The four obligingly
waited for him to run clear, then
opened up on the ten. At the same
time the ten started slinging lead
at the four.

At top speed he kept going. He
could have lounged on a rock, in
complete command of the situation,
and remained until everyone had
bumped everyone else — given that
there was no effective force located
outside his hypnotic range. He could
not be sure of just how far the trap
extended.

The obviously sensible thing to do
was to get right out of reach as
swiftly as possible, curve back to the
road, confiscate a passing car and
disappear once more among Earth’s
teeming millions. How to contact the
ship was a problem that must be
shelved until he could ponder it in
a safe place. It wasn’t unsolvable;
not to one who could be the Presi-
dent himself.

His immediate fear was well-
founded. At twelve -hundred yards
there happened to be a beefy gentle-
man named Hank who found that a
brazen escape during an outbreak
of civil war was too much to be en-
dured. Hank had a quick temper,
also a heavy machine-gun. Seeing
differently from those nearer the
prey, and being given no orders to
the contrary, Hank uttered an un-
seemly word, swung the gun, scowl-
ed through its sights, rammed his
thumbs on its button. The gun went
br-r-r-r while its ammo-belt jumped
and rattled.

Despite the range his aim was per-
fect. Harasha Vanash was flung side-
wise in full flight, went down and
didn’t get up. His supine body jerk-
ed around under the impact of more
bullets. He was very decidedly dead.

Harrison got on the phone to pass
the news, and O'Keefe said, "He’s
not here. It’s his day off.”

’ 'Where'll I find him then?”

"At home and no place else. I’ll
give you his number. He might an-
swer if he’s not busy baby-sitting.”
Trying again, Harrison got
through. "They killed him ... or it
. . . just under an hour ago.”

"Hm-m-m! Pity they didn’t take
him alive.”

"Easier said than done. Anyway,
how can you retain a firm hold on
someone who can make you remove
his manacles and get into them your-
self?”

"That,” said Rider, "is the prob-
lem of our Security boys in general

LEGWORK

and our police in particular. I work
for the Treasury.”

Replacing the phone, Harrison
frowned at the wall. Beyond the wall,
several hundreds of miles to the
south, a group of men walked onto
the dispersal-point of an airport,
placed a strange box on the ground,
pressed its stud. Then they watched
the sky and waited.

The hordes of Andromeda were
very, very old. That was why they’d
progressed as far as they had done.
Flashes of inspiration had piled up
through the numberless centuries

until sheer weight of accumulated
genius had given them the key to
the cosmos.

Like many very old people, they
had contempt for the young and
eager. But their contempt would have
switched to horror if they could have
seen the methodical way in which
a bunch of specialist legworkers
started pulling their metal sphere
apart.

Or the way in which Earth com-
menced planning a vast armada of
similar ships.

A good deal bigger.

With several improvements.

THE END

IN TIMES TO COME

The next issue features a yarn by Everett B. Cole — "The Missionaries.”
Now it is a fact that barbaric cultures, without true science, have succeeded
in rule-of-thumb engineering of remarkably solid order. It’s also true that
barbarian cultures seem to have done more on the use of psionic powers
than any scientific culture has so far.

What happens if a barbarian culture thumb-rule their way to a spaceship
— and start expanding their empire? A workable, technical device does not
require an understanding science behind it; a dog has a finer computer
machine than any Man has built yet. And a barbarian with a spaceship
would still, for all his rule-of-thumb technique, be a barbarian.

But — a dangerous one indeed!

The Editor.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

THE CURIOUS PROFESSION

BY LEONARD LOCKHARD

This, sadly is not really fiction, it’s
an hypothetical case. This, friends, is
the way the Law of Patents works:

Illustrated by Freas

The Lorelei must have sounded through the offices of Helix Spard-

like that. Enticing, inviting, yet leton, Patent attorney,

somehow ominous. I sat puzzled "Oh, Mr. Saddle. Will you come
until 1 heard it again, booming in here a moment, please?”

THE CURIOUS PROFESSION

I was right the first time. Never
before had I heard quite that tone.
I was used to snarls, rasps, and bel-
lows. I was familiar with the silky
purr, the honey-coated murmur. I
was even used to the breath-snatch-
ing change of pace from a gentle
smile to a wall-shattering roar. For
all these things were merely the
stock-in-trade of any good patent
attorney — merely part of the arma-
ment to be used in the eternal battle
against the Examiners in the United
States Patent Office.

But this was different. I , got up
and slowly walked out of my office.
As I passed through the front office
Susan looked from her typewriter
and then looked quickly down. She
sensed it, too. I took a deep breath
and went into Mr. Spardleton’s
office.

He was reading an Office Action
when I entered. His cigar was tilted
at the thirty-degree-above-horizontal
angle that meant trouble. His black
eyes lifted from the Action and
bored through the cloud of cigar
smoke.

"Mr. Saddle, how long have you
been working for me now?”

My knees got shaky. What had
I done? My cases were all in good
shape. I’d been working hard six-
teen hours a day, Saturdays, Sun-
days, and holidays included. I had
even been reprimanded by a Primary
Examiner for being too noisy at an
interview. As far as I could tell I
was doing fine.

"Well, Mr. Saddle, how long’s
it been?”

I collected myself and said, "Ten
months, fourteen days, two hours,
and fif — ”

"Good. And how are you feeling?
Developed your ulcer yet?”

"Oh no. Nothing like that. A few
gas pains lately but noth — ”

"Well keep with it. You’ll get
there.”

He looked down at the Office Ac-
tion again and said, "I think you’re
ready for the next step in your
education. I have here an action
from Herbert Krome, the Examiner
in one of your cases. He gives us a
claim and suggests we copy it. You
know w'hat that means?”

I thought for a moment and then
remembered, "Yes. We’re in an
Interference.”

"Right. Interference. I called you
in here so we could go over the case
and see where we stand.”

A great weight lifted from my
shoulders. He just wanted to talk
about Interference practice.

"Oh,” I said half to myself, "is
that all?” I turned to pull up a chair.

A strange gurgling sound filled
the room. I looked around quickly,
thinking the plumbing had let go.
But the next instant I saw that it
was Mr. Spardleton. He seemed to
be swallowing his cigar. I jumped
over to him and pounded him on
the back. He gagged and coughed
and choked and sputtered. It was
several minutes before he got him-
self under control and his cigar back
in battery.

"Mr. Saddle.” His voice was

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

strained. "Mr. Saddle, don’t ever
refer to an Interference in that
slighting tone. Do you know what
an Interference is?”

I was surprised. "Well certainly,
sir. An Interference is a Proceeding
instituted in the Patent Office to
determine which one of two or more
parties claiming the invention is the
first and original inventor. Rule 201
covers it. That’s all there is to it.”

He started to cough. "There Mr.
Saddle. You said it again.” He
shook his head and sat back. His
cigar was burning so vigorously I
could hear it.

"Mr. Saddle, you know how vast
the body of patent law is. You also
know that very little of it makes
sense. It is the most irrational, in-
consistent, unreasoning conglomera-
tion of doctrines ever gathered under
one heading. And sitting right in
the middle of this vertiginous maze
are the doctrines that govern Inter-
ference practice, the most curious
of all in an exceedingly curious pro-
fession.”

He sat back and looked at the
ceiling.

I spoke up. "But it's only to find
out who is the first inventor. That’s
the sole purpose of the whole thing
— who’s first? Why should that be
so hard?”

Mr. Spardleton heaved a deep
sigh. "If an Interference proceed-
ing really did determine who was
the first inventor of a given inven-
tion, there would be nothing to it.
But it doesn’t. All it does is decide

THE CURIOUS PROFESSION

which claimant should get it. Priority
doesn’t necessarily come into it.”
"Well, how do they decide?”

"I don’t know. No one does. Mr.
Revise and Mr. Caesar have written
a four-volume work entitled 'Inter-
ference Law and Practice.’ It con-
tains much of the law of Interfer-
ence. But it doesn’t tell you how the
Board of Interference Examiners or
the courts are going to decide.”
"Just a question of luck, is that
it?”

"No. It’s not even that. I wish
it were, then you’d know where
you s-tand. If all parties to an Inter-
ference were forced to go into a
room and either throw dice or draw
cards to see who’s the first, the
winner would really be the first in-
ventor a certain per cent of the time.
But as it stands now even the laws
of probability have nothing to do
with it. The Board and the courts
see to that.”

I digested that and asked, "How
do they go about messing things
up so much?”

Mr. Spardleton snorted. "Oh, they
have lots of ways. One of the best
ways is to allow the parties to decide
among themselves. One party can
concede priority to another no mat-
ter who is really first. The Board
and the courts accept it.”

"Well, then, they can throw dice
or draw cards just the way you said
they should.”

Spardleton sighed and shook his
head. "But the parties never do it
that way. They decide who’s going
to be the first inventor in view of

their business relationship. Maybe
one party threatens the other with
a lawsuit on some other patent. May-
be one threatens to stop buying raw
materials from the other. They find
some reason why one should be the
first inventor. And it often has noth-
ing to do with who’s actually first.
But the law adopts their decision
and treats it as conclusive between
those parties.”

I started to make a shrewd obser-
vation but Spardleton waved me
quiet.

He said, "Mr. Saddle, I’m going
to turn you loose on this Interfer-
ence. Experience will teach you bet-
ter than anything I could say. I’ll
supervise you only enough so that
you don’t walk into an estoppel
situation. Now suppose you tell me
how you’re going to start out. Here’s
the letter from the Patent Office.”

I took it and read:

The following claim, found allowable
in another application, is suggested for
the purpose of declaring an interference:

A method of preventing pigeons from
contaminating buildings which com-
prises applying supersonic sound to the
skeletal structure of a building.

Applicants are advised that failure to
make the above claim within thirty days
will be taken as a disclaimer of the
invention covered by that claim.

Examiner

I read it again. The claim was fa-
miliar. Then I remembered.

"Wait a minute,” I said to Spard-
leton. "I remember this case clearly
now. I originally filed it with this

exact claim in it. Kromc rejected it
as being non-inventive over an
issued patent on a supersonic dog
whistle. So I added new claims
drawn to a process of removing dust
from buildings by applying super-
sonic sound to the frame. He reject-
ed those because they failed to pa-
tentably distinguish over my original
claim. Now he comes along and says
my original claim is patentable in
somebody else’s application. What's
the matter with him? The claim’s
been patentable all along. Why did-
n’t he — ■”

"Easy, son. Easy.” Spardleton
broke in. "You’ll get used to it. It’s
just another example of the reverse
logic in the Patent Office. When two
applications both claim the same
invention the Office decides it must
be patentable.”

"But that’s not the test of patenta-
bility,” I said. "That’s not the way
they’re supposed to approach it.”

Spardleton sighed. ”1 thought I’d
convinced you that there is no such
thing as a definite test for patenta-
bility. But you’ll learn. Let’s get
back to this case. Tell me what
you are going to do.”

"Well,” I said, "first, I’m going
to put in an amendment and make
this claim. Then I’ll check with the
inventors and see what kind of con-
ception date I can prove. As I re-
member, Marchare and his co-inven-
tor may have actually reduced this
invention to practice. Anyhow, I
wrote the application and filed it.
Marchare doesn’t consider the in-
vention very important.”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

Spardieton tipped his head back
and looked at me down the length
of his nose. "Tell me,” he said.
"What is an actual reduction to
practice?”

"Well,” I said, "it’s the applica-
tion of the inventive idea to the pro-
duction of a practical result. At
least that’s what the Supreme Court
said.”

"Ah, yes. The Supreme Court. I
believe 1 have mentioned my opinion
of the Supreme Court in regard to
patent cases.”

"Yes, you have. You said that the
Justices never understand the tech-
nology in a patent case so they take
refuse in the law, and that’s fatal.”

"Yes. Well, you have cleaned it
up a little. Anyhow, the Supreme
Court rewrites the law with just
about each patent case, ignoring
statutes and prior decisions. So let
me ask you: You’ve got an inven-
tion involving the bars in a type-
writer. The inventor builds the type-
writer and manipulates the bars, but
he doesn’t put a piece of paper in
it. Is that an actual reduction to
practice?”

I thought a minute and said,
"Yes. He actually built the inven-
tion and tried it to make sure it
worked. The lack of paper doesn’t
matter.”

Spardieton knocked an ash off the
end of his cigar. "Nope. In the
case of Paul vs. Hess the court said
that a typewriter is a complicated
machine, so its successful operation
must be completely demonstrated.

THE CURIOUS PROFESSION

No reduction to practice there. Now
let's look at the patent Bell took out
on his telephone. Bell's telephone
model never actually transmitted
spoken words so that they could be
distinctly heard and understood at
the receiving end of his line; the
model never transmitted intelligible
spoken words. Did that model con-
stitute an actual reduction to prac-
tice?”

I didn’t hesitate. "No!"

He looked sorrowful. "Mr. Sad-
dle. You are still trying to apply
logic to patent cases. By the time the
Telephone Cases got to the Supreme
Court Bell and his telephone were
national institutions. The court did-
n’t dare say that Bell didn’t have
an invention or that his model was
no good. To do so would have
shown the world the extent of the
court's technical knowledge. So the
court said that the written descrip-
tion in Bell’s patent was so good
that his model did constitute an ac-
tual reduction to practice even
though it did not work. Now. Sup-
pose your inventor had discovered
a new way to keep an automobile
tire on its rim. He makes it, in-
stalls it on the wheel, and bounces
it around on the floor to make cer-
tain it will hold. Reduction to prac-
tice?”

I looked at him silently for a long
moment trying to find the catch.
Before I could say anything he said,
"Good. When you don’t know, don’t
say anything — most of the time.
Well, in the case of Jobski vs. John-
son the court said that such a device

must be used on an actual automobile
before there could be a reduction to
practice; after all, consider the
strains such a device would be sub-
jected to when the car travels at a
high rate of speed. So there was no
actual reduction to practice. Any-
thing wrong with that?”

"Oh no,” 1 said. "It’s just that'
a lawyer doesn’t know — ”

"Tell me this,” he interrupted,
"suppose you were the lawyer in the
case of American Chain vs. Weaver
Company and you were wondering
whether the court would hold that
you had had an actual reduction to
practice. You hear them label your
model as crude, unsightly, unfinish-
ed, unsatisfactory, and somewhat un-
completed; those are the court’s exact
words. What would you think?”

I said, "I’d think I had lost my
case.”

Spardleton nodded. "But as I’ve
told you many times, you must have
faith. In that case the court went
on to say that in spite of everything,
the object contained all the effective
and substantial elements of the in-
vention, and therefore there had
been an actual reduction to practice.
The point I am making, Mr. Saddle,
is that it is sometimes difficult to
decide whether there has been an
actual reduction to practice. In fact
you won’t know until a court has
ruled on it and even then you won’t
be sure. So be careful in this pigeon-
scarer case. It'll be a good one for
you to break in on. Go to it; file
an amendment and make this claim
Krome wants you to make.”

"Right,” I said, and staggered out
of the room.

I prepared the amendment and
filed it and then went over to the
Marchare Laboratories in Alexan-
dria.

"Hello, Saddle,” Marchare greet-
ed me. "What’s new in the patent
business?”

I said, "Well, for one thing we're
in Interference with one of your
applications.”

"O'h? Which one?”

"The one about the supersonic
bird-scarer.”

"Oh, yes. I remember it. I sup-
pose you want to establish some
dates. Well, I can only give you a
conception date. We never reduced
to practice. We thought of it and
then you wrote the case and filed
it two months later. Let’s go look at
the transcript of the meeting.”

I followed him to the Records
Room, thinking that at least I
wouldn’t be pestered with questions
about actual reduction to practice. I
never failed but to be amazed at
Marchare’s astounding memory. He
never forgot anything, which proba-
bly helped account for his being a
Nobel Prize winner three times
over.

"Let’s see,” he said, pulling open
a drawer. "The transcript of the
meeting where we thought of the
bird-scarer should be here some-
where.”

The morning meetings in the
Marchare Laboratories were always

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

transcribed word for word. Hosts of
patentable inventions had cropped
up that way.

"Yes,” said Marchare. "Callahan
and I were discussing the effect of
supersonic sound on chemical reac-
tions. Then I said — but here. Read
it yourself.”

He handed me the transcript and
pointed to the top line. I read:

Marchare: Supersonic sound will at
least prevent build-up on the interior of
the reactor. Say. Won't supersonic sound
prevent deposition of dust or anything
on a reactor? That's your field, Callahan.
What do you think of it?

Callahan: To be perfectly frank, doc-
tor, I think that’s for the birds.

Sixteen seconds of silence

Callahan: Wait a minute. Now there’s
something. Supersonic sound will keep
birds off a building. That’ll work.

Marchare: Yes, I guess it will. But
I still think it’ll keep dust off, too.

THE CURIOUS PROFESSION

Anyway, we'll turn the idea over to the
Spardleton firm and if they think it s
patentable well have them file. Now
back to chemistry. Why can't supersonic
sound supply the energy necessary to
dehydrate —

That was all of the transcript that
interested me and I could see it was
incomplete; it did not describe the
invention in detail. I knew what had
happened after that. Marchare called
Spardleton. Spardleton turned it
over to me. I wrote the case with
Marchare and Callahan as co-inven-
tors filling in the details and leaving
the way open to claim either a bird-
scarer or a dust-preventor. My origi-
nal claims were drawn to a bird-
scarer. Krome rejected them so I
changed them to a dust-preventor.
Then along came Krome finding
the original bird-scarer claim allow-
able and setting up an Interference.

I made notes of where I could
locate the transcript again if I need-
ed it, and noted down the date of
the meeting. The meeting undoubt-
edly established the conception date,
even though the transcript might not
show it clearly enough. I thanked
Marchare and went back to the office.

In due time I got the Declaration
of Interference setting the dates for
the Preliminary Statement, the Mo-
tion Period, and the Taking of Testi-
mony.

I made out the Preliminary State-
ment that stated what dates I could
prove. Spardleton approved the
Statement so I filed it in the sealed
envelope.

100

The period for filing the Prelimi-
nary Statement passed and the Mo-
tion Period started. For the first
time I was allowed to see the patent
application of the opposing party in
the Interference.

The first thing I looked for was
the date on which the application
had been filed in the Patent Office.
Huh. Two weeks after mine. Well,
that's good news. Since 1 filed first
I was Senior Party in the Interfer-
ence.

The opposing inventor was Harry
Herd, 354 Hunter Street, Ossining,
New York. His attorney was J.
Harlington Burlington, Munsey
Building, Washington, D. C.

The specification was very short,
only two typewritten pages. It de-
scribed how to apply supersonic
sound to the framework of a build-
ing, and how pigeons would then
never go near it. There was only
one claim, the same claim Krome
had required me to make. All in all
it was a simple forthright patent
application — a very unusual case.

1 ordered a copy of it and took
it back to my office to study. After
two days I came to the conclusion
that there were no problems what-
soever in this Interference. No mo-
tions need be made, a very unusual
situation. I had heard of cases that
required years merely to resolve the
issues raised in the Motion Period.
But the only issue in my case was:
Who is the first inventor of the
pigeon-scarer? The only thing to do
was to take testimony and go to the
Final Hearing.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

I walked into Spardleton’s office
to get his approval. The first thing
he asked was, "Who filed his ap-
plication first?”

"We did. The other party filed
two weeks later.”

Spardleton sat back, nodding his
head. "Excellent. That does it.”
"Why?” I said. "Maybe they can
prove conception much earlier.”
Spardleton said, "Mr. Saddle, you
are the Senior Party in this Interfer-
ence. The other party has the burden
to try and establish a date earlier
than your filing date. And that is
very, very hard to do. Any Junior
Party carries a heavy burden when
he tries to prove earlier dates. The
burden is so heavy that few Junior
Parties can carry it. That’s why a
Junior Party loses eighty per cent
of the time; only about twenty per
cent of Junior Parties win. Not be-
cause they weren’t the first inventor,
mind you. But because the wise and
wondrous patent law makes it almost
impossible for them to win.”
"Well,” I said, "I’ll win this one
no matter what they do. Without
help from screwy law, too.”

"I like your optimism,” said
Spardleton. "Now let’s see. Since
you are Senior Party you will take
testimony last. How are you going
to prove your conception date if you
have to?”

I told Spardleton of the transcript
of the meeting between Marchare
and Callahan. I would introduce the
transcript for what it was worth and
back it with the testimony of the
two inventors.

THE CURIOUS PROFESSION

Spardleton looked at me strange-
ly. "Mr. Saddle, I said I am going
to let you do this on your own.
Experience is the best teacher and
all that. But I would like to recom-
mend that you also introduce the
testimony of the secretary who took
that transcript.”

"O.K.,” I said, just as though I
knew what he was driving at. "Any-
thing else?”

"Yes. Can you prove diligence
between the date of conception and
the date of filing?”

I said, "Yes. I can show that I
prepared that specification in the
same order as I received it. And I
can show that Marchare told me
about the invention the very day
he and Callahan conceived it.”

"All right,” said Spardleton.
"You’ve got it. I'll be present at
the Final Hearing. Good luck.”

About a week later I received a
notice for the taking of testimony
for the Junior Party in the case of
Marchare et al vs. Herd. The place
where testimony was to be taken was
354 Hunter Street, Ossining, New
York. I remembered that that was
Herd’s home address. Susan got
reservations for me at a hotel. I
cleared with Spardleton and drew
two hundred dollars for expenses.

The night before the hearing I
checked into the hotel in Ossining
early to get myself squared away.
I asked the desk clerk how long it
took to get to 354 Hunter Street by
taxi. He told me ten minutes, so I
forced myself to stay in bed until

101

eight o’clock the following morning.

At a quarter of ten I caught a
cab. About eight minutes later we
pulled up in front of a high somber
wall with a nasty little gate in it.

"Where are we?” I asked.

"Sing Sing Prison,” said the
driver.

"Oh,” I said settling back.
"Thanks for showing it to me, but
I have an appointment. Will you
please take me to 354 Hunter
Street?”

The driyer turned to look at me.
"What's the matter with you, Bud?
Sing Sing IS 354 Hunter Street.”

I straightened. "What? Why
that’s impossible. It can’t be. I have
an inventor to talk to. You must — ”

"You waiting for somebody?” A
voice cut in through the taxi win-
dow. I saw a big man in a uinform.

I said, "No, Officer. I’m supposed
to see a man named Harry Herd at
354 Hunter Street, and this taxi
driver tells — ”

"Your name Saddle?” the uni-
form interrupted.

"Why, why, why . . . yes.”

"O.K. Come on. They’re all wait-
ing for you.”

"In here?” I asked feebly, waving
at the looming wall.

"Yup.”

I paid off the grinning driver and
followed the guard, walking in as
straight a line as my whirling head
would allow. I expected to have to
strip while guards looked for hidden
hand grenades but nobody put a
finger on me. In a moment I was in
the Warden’s Office.

102

A short, very heavy man came
over to me. His face was one of
those that always seems about to
break into a yawn. "I’m Burling-
ton,” he said as we shook hands.
"The others are all set.”

The others consisted of the
Warden, a pretty girl, and a little
wizened runt of a man who looked
as though he had gone through the
same processing as do prunes.

Burlington said, "The Warden
is a notary public so he can give
the oaths. Miss Dren here is a public
stenographer; she will keep the
record. Mr. Harry Herd,” he point-
ed at the prune, "is the inventor and
is all set to testify. Are you ready?”

I could do nothing but nod. How
I wished for Spardleton. But I was
on my own.

Herd took the oath and sat down.
The stenographer took the follow-
ing:

Burlington: State your name, age
and address.

Herd: Harry Herd, forty-two, 354
Hunter Street, Ossining, New York.
And I —

Burlington : Thank you. Arc you
the inventor in United States patent
application Serial Number 166,211
entitled Method for Chasing
Pigeons ?

Herd: Yesiam. And I —

Burlington: Thank you. Will you
tell us the circumstances under which
you first got the idea for this inven-
tion?

Herd: Cer’ny. I am sitting in the
prison library one day and there is
a pigeon, a bird pigeon, perched on

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

the bars outside and I am reading
a very interesting magazine what
tells how you take supersonic sound
and use it on a liquid what’s got
little particles in it so that —

I listened to Herd drone on and
on. I did not object when Burlington
introduced the piece of paper that
Herd had scribbled his idea on. My
mind was clear now. Gradually I
saw my course of action. All 1 had
to do was make sure that the record
showed that Herd was a convicted
criminal now serving time. His testi-
mony would be worthless. Who'd
believe a convict?

Under Burlington’s prodding,
Herd established a conception date.
And it was a later conception date
than Marchare’s; Marchare had con-
ceived the invention first. Things
began looking up.

Finally direct examination was
over. Burlington turned to me and
said, "Any cross-examination?”

"Yes, SIR,” I answered.

I turned to Herd and said, "What
is your occupation, Mr. Herd?”

Herd: Machinist.

Saddle: Arc you working at it
now?

Herd: Yes.

Saddle: Under what circum-

stances?

By Mr. Burlington: I object. The
question is immaterial and irrele-
vant.

By Mr. Saddle: I am about to
attack the witness’ credibility. The
question is perfectly proper. Mr.
Herd, please answer. Under what

THE CURIOUS PROFESSION

circumstances do you work as a
machinist?

Herd! Whadoyumcan?

Saddle: What institution do you
work in?

Herd: Whatdoyamean institution?

Saddle: Mr. Herd. Are you, or
are you not now serving a jail sen-,
tence in Sing Sing Prison?

Herd: Oh, that. Well, yes.

Saddle: What for?

Herd: I was framed. They had
nothing on me. I was railroaded.
They put the —

Saddle: Please, Mr. Herd. What
were you convicted of?

Herd: Armed robbery. I never
had a chance. I’m a three time loser.
They threw the book at me. I —

Saddle: You mean you are in for
life as a habitual criminal?

Herd: Yeah. But they —

Saddle: Thank you, Mr. Herd.
No further questions.

By Mr. Burlington: Let the rec-
ord show the following: Mr. Saddle
has not impeached this witness. A
conviction for robbery docs not
affect a witness’ reputation for truth-
and-veracity. It only affects his repu-
tation for honesty-and-integrity, and
that has nothing to do with this
testimony under oath. Thus Mr.
Herd's testimony stands unchal-
lenged, unimpeached, and capable
of being believed. Just because a
man has committed a robbery or two
does not mean he won't tell the
truth.

I had a sinking feeling in the pit
of my stomach. The rules of evi-

103

deuce were coming back to me.
Burlington was right. The law stated
that a robber’s testimony was as good
as anyone else's as long as his gen-
eral character wasn’t at stake. Things
didn’t look so good.

There was one thing in my favor.
In taking testimony in an Interfer-
ence, everything, but everything,
went down in the record. There was
no judge around to exclude improp-
er testimony. So if you wanted to
throw in the kitchen sink, in it went.
At the Final Hearing, though, the
Board of Interference Examiners ex-
cluded inadmissible testimony. The
Board read everything over, includ-
ing the objections, and threw out
everything that was improper. But
they had to read it first. And that’s
where I hoped to get the advantage.
The Board would learn that Herd
was a convict. It couldn’t help but
influence them.

We were through with Herd so
a guard came and got him. Burling-
ton then called on the supporting
witnesses.

There were three of them. They
had all been sitting at the library
table when Herd conceived the
pigeon-scarer. They all supported
Herd’s testimony, backed it up very
nicely. They all had seen the piece
of paper on which Herd had scrib-
bled his idea. They all made it clear
that Herd had conceived the inven-
tion on a date prior to the date I
had filed Marchare’s case. And they
were all serving heavy sentences.

The first was a dapper fellow
with a little black mustache. He was

104

in for working the confidence game
— specialized in mulcting widows
out of their savings.

The second was relatively pure.
He’d embezzled money from a
bank, but only once.

The third and last was a knife
expert. He liked to whittle, but the
law frowned on his choice of ob-
jects to whittle on. He’d been
framed on a second-degree murder
rap.

In each case I made sure that the
record showed what the boys were
in for. Burlington didn’t even
bother to object to my questions to
the con man; the confidence game
definitely mitigates against a man’s
truth-and-veracity. But Burlington
objected to the questions to the em-
bezzler. Just as with robbery, em-
bezzling affects a man’s honesty-and-
integrity, not his truth-and-veracity.
And when we got to the murderer
Burlington almost lost his sleepi-
ness. Murder has nothing to do with
truth-and-veracity either. Murder
only involves peace-and-good-order.
Anyhow, it got into the record.

That ended the taking of the
Junior Party’s testimony. I shook
hands with Burlington and the
Warden and caught a 2:00 o’clock
train back to Washington. Things
looked pretty good.

The next morning I went into
Spardleton's office to tell him about
it, but he would have none of it.

"No, sir,” he said. "This is your
baby. You handle it. I’ll go with
you to the Final Hearing, but other-
wise I’ll stay out of it. You seem

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

to be doing well. This Interference
will consume less time than any I've
ever heard of; usually they take
years. Besides, you’re the Senior
Party in this Interference so it’s al-
most impossible for you to lose. The
Junior Party carries too heavy a
burden; I’ve told you that many
times. Now shoo out of here. I’ve
got my own troubles.”

I shooed. Spardleton was in for
a surprise when he learned who the
opposing party was. That was going
to be rich.

The next few days were busy
ones. I decided on a hearing date
and served notice on Burlington to
be there. I talked the case over with
Marchare and Callahan and got their
testimony straightened out. I made
sure that the secretary that had taken
the notes at the research meeting
would be available as a witness. I

THE CURIOUS PROFESSION

arranged for a stenographer to take
down everything that was said. I
contacted a notary public so he
could be present.

The day of the hearing dawned
hot and stifling. Although I had set
the hearing for ten o’clock in the
morning, I arrived at the Marchare
Laboratories at eight. Marchare had
agreed to the use of one of his air-
conditioned meeting rooms as a hear-
ing room; the cool room felt good.

At nine-thirty, Burlington walked
in. He began unloading papers from
the steamer trunk that served him
for a brief case.

The notary showed up, then the
stenographer. And at five minutes
to ten my three witnesses walked in.

The hearing went swimmingly.
Marchare was sworn in and testified
as to what had happened at the
meeting between him and Callahan.
I offered a certified copy of the

105

notes of the meeting into evidence.

No objection from Mr. Burling-
ton.

I finished the direct examination
with Dr. Marchare.

No cross-examination from Mr.
Burlington.

Callahan took the chair and gave
the same testimony as Dr. Marchare.

"No cross-examination,’’ said Mr.
Burlington, looking too sleepy even
to get up on his feet.

This was a picnic. I was complete
master of the situation. Things were
going beautifully.

The secretary, my last witness,
took the chair and stated the same
facts as had Marchare and Callahan.
She’d heard everything. She’d taken
the shorthand. She’d transcribed it.
As simple as that. I turned and
looked down my nose at Mr. Bur-
lington. "Any cross?”

Mr. Burlington said, "No cross-
exam — Oh. Just one thing.” He
painfully twisted his head around to
look at the secretary. "Tell me, Miss.
What is supersonic sound?”

She looked at him pertly and said,
"Why, it’s . . . it’s a very loud
noise.”

"You mean,” said Mr. Burlington,
"that it’s a noise that’s a lot louder
than most noises?”

"Yes.”

"How do you think it would
affect your ears?”

"Well, I’m sure I don’t know.
It would probably deafen me.”

"Thank you, Miss. No further
cross-examination.” And he painful-
ly untwisted his head.

106

I stood there with my mouth
open. I’d never thought to ask the
secretary if she knew what super-
sonic sound was. Anybody working
for Marchare should know. But I
guess secretaries were harder to get
in Washington than I thought. She
didn't understand the invention. And
unless a witness understands the in-
vention the testimony wasn't worth
a hoot. For a moment I was jolted.
But then I remembered that the testi-
mony of my two inventors stood
intact. And two experts like that
ought to be more than enough.

The taking of testimony was over.
We had started at ten and were
through by noon. Good manage-
ment.

"A nicely organized hearing, Mr.
Saddle,” said Mr. Burlington as he
reloaded his trunk.

"Thank you, Mr. Burlington.”

"See you at the Final Hearing,”
he said. And he went out the door,
obviously going home to bed.

A few weeks later I received my
copy of the brief Burlington had
written for the Final Hearing. There
wasn’t much to it. All he said was
that the unsupported testimony of
Marchare and Callahan was not
sufficient to establish a date of any
kind, so that Marchare and Callahan
had to rely on the filing date of
their patent application. On the
other hand, the supported testimony
of the party Herd clearly established
diligence and a conception date prior
to the filing date of the party Mar-
chare el al. Therefore, Herd should

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

be awarded priority and Herd should
get the patent.

I laughed. How silly can you
get? I didn’t even have to look in
the books to write my own brief.
I pointed out that the name Mar-
chare was known to households
throughout the world as a sterling
representation of a great and good
man. And his co- inventor Callahan
was renowned in his own right. The
testimony of these two men, these
paragons of virtue, must be balanced
against the testimony of the some-
what tarnished witnesses on the
other side. It was clear the testimony
of Marchare and Callahan estab-
lished a conception date prior to
the date established by Herd and his
crew. I closed my brief by saying
that I knew the Board would see
that justice was done and award
priority to the party Marchare et al.

Susan typed up the necessary
copies of the brief. I admired it for
a day and then served a copy on
Burlington and filed three copies in
the Patent Office. I sighed with
relief. My first Interference was
looking pretty good.

Came the day of the Final Hear-
ing. I got dressed in my best clothes.
I had a little trouble with my shoe-
laces and I couldn’t get my tie right.
A good breakfast straightened me
out; fortunately the cup of coffee
I spilled didn’t get on me at all.

Spardleton wouldn't let me talk
about the case as we sat waiting for
the time to go over to the Patent
Office. He puttered around his desk
while I took a few turns around

THE CURIOUS PROFESSION

the office. I drank a lot of water
and rearranged a lot of papers and
knocked a few books off a desk.
When the time came to leave, Susan
came up to me and gave me a big
kiss. Our first kiss. And it wasn't
until the hearing was over that I
realized what she had done.

Spardleton and I were the first
to arrive. Shortly after, Krome, the
Examiner in the case, came in. I
gulped at him and he grunted at me.
He went over behind the bench and
began flipping through the records
of the case. A Primary Examiner
came in and did the same thing.
Burlington arrived puffing and
droopy looking. He seemed sur-
prised to see Spardleton there. Then
the Interference Examiner came in
and we were ready to start.

Burlington represented the Junior
Party so he argued first. His argu-
ment was just like his brief: You
can’t believe Marchare et d for a
conception date; you must believe
Herd.

Spardleton gave me a funny look
as I got up to argue. Krome con-
tinued to flip papers.

I cleared my throat seven or eight
times before I located my voice.

"Your Honors,” I began. Then
confidence surged through me.. I
began speaking fluently and well.
I told of what a fine man Marchare
was. I described Callahan’s virtues.
I coughed delicately when I pointed
out the type of people my learned
opponent represented. My voice
rose sonorously, and it dropped to

107

a whisper. I’d been a good speaker
back in law school and I could tell
I was even better now. I played on
words the way a harpist does on
strings, extracting full benefit from
each measured tone, each inflection.
Even Krome stopped flipping papers
for a moment to look at me. And
when I finished I closed my notes
and turned to Spardleton with a
pleased smile on my face.

He was looking at me wide-eyed,
shock and displeasure written in
every line of his face. My smile
fell off. I started to go over to him,
but the voice of the Interference
Examiner stopped me.

"Uh, Mr. Saddle.”

I turned to him. "Yes, sir?”

"Is this your whole case? Have
you nothing else to, offer?”

"Nothing else!” I said. "That’s all
I need; Surely you can’t believe what
the opposing party’s testimony says
and not believe mine?”

"But, Mr. Saddle, you have cast
a cloud on only one of the opposing
party’s witnesses. The opposing in-
ventor put his invention on paper
and three witnesses back him up.
On the other hand you have no
witnesses at all.”

"Witnesses!’' I said. "Aren’t
Marchare and Callahan and the
transcript enough?”

The Interference Examiner shook
his head. "I’m afraid not, Mr. Sad-
dle. By a long unbroken chain of
decisions from the Patent Office
tribunals and from the courts the
testimony of an inventor is never

108

enough to establish a date, any
date.”

"But I have two inventors. Plus
the transcript.”

"It wouldn’t matter if you had
fifteen inventors and fifteen incom-
plete transcripts. The courts do not
consider that one co-inventor is
competent to support another co-
inventor. You had better read the
leading cases of Mcrgenthaler vs.
Scudder and Winslow vs. Austin.
You need outside evidence. Even a
shred of outside evidence. Eor in-
stance here,” he looked at me hope-
fully, "the secretary that took the
Incomplete transcript. Are you sure
she can’t help?”

I shook my head helplessly. "She
didn’t understand what she was
taking down.”

"I'm sorry then. I admit that
nowhere else in all of the law of this
country does any court or tribunal
refuse to credit the testimony of an
interested party. Interference law
stands alone in this respect. But as
it is we can reach only one decision.”

I made a last desperate try. "But
how can you believe a gang of thugs
and not believe two such fine men?”

"Em sorry, Mr. Saddle. That’s the
law in Interference practice.”

1 turned helplessly to Spardleton.
He raised his eyebrows and shrugged
his shoulder. The gesture of defeat
made me feel a little better. If
Spardleton was beaten, there was
nothing left to do. Again I started
to walk over to him.

"Ah, Gentlemen.”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

It was Krome. He had stopped
flipping papers. He was looking at
one fixedly.

He said, "This transcript of the
meeting between Marchare and Cal-
lahan. Although it does not specifi-
cally describe the invention I note
that it is part of the record and that
there is no objection to it. I must
point out that the claim of the In-
terference is directed solely at a
process for repelling pigeons. Now
this transcript indicates that Callahan
invented the process, not Marchare.
It was Callahan who stated that
supersonic sound was for the birds.
Now if — ”

Sleepiness dropped from Burling-
ton like a cloak. He leaped to his
feet shouting, "You can’t do that.
It’s too late. You can’t — ”

"The hell he can’t,” Spardleton’s
voice boomed in from my right.
"Your Honors. I make a motion that
the party Marchare et al be granted
ten days to convert their joint appli-
cation to a sole, in the name of Cal-
lahan alone. We wil — ”

"It’s Final Hearing,” shouted
Burlington. "Too late. You’re tak-
ing unconscionable advantage. You
had your chance.”

Spardleton’s voice rose higher,
drowning out Burlington. "It’s never
too late till the patent issues. You
knew it all along. Why — ”

Burlington went up an octave.
Spardleton kept talking. My head
swiveled from one to the other.
Spardleton began beating the table-
top with his fist. His voice went up
a notch. Burlington took up the

table-pounding. The din became
terrific. I couldn’t understand what
either man was saying. A few flecks
of plaster drifted down from the
ceiling.

Dimly I heard the Interference
Examiner shouting, "Gentlemen.
Please. Gentlemen.”

"Joint to sole.” "Fraud.” "Rule
243.” "Joint to sole.” "You can’t.”
"We can.”

The Interference Examiner began
pounding on the bench. The place
sounded like an African village just
before the sacrifice. For the first
time I understood why Spardleton
had always insisted that voice train-
ing was an integral part of a patent
attorney’s education.

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THE CURIOUS PROFESSION

109

I saw Krome sit back in his chair,
take a deep breath, close his eyes,
and point his nose at the ceiling.
Then there issued from his throat
the most resounding roar ever to
spring from the throat of a mortal
man.

"GENTLEMEN.”

The silence was deafening. The
room fell silent; the outside corridor
fell silent; the adjoining rooms fell
silent. Typewriters and voices stilled
throughout a goodly portion of the
building.

The Interference Examiner turned
to Krome and said, "Thank you,
Mr. Krome.” Then he turned to me
and said, "This Board will grant
the party Marchare et al ten days
to submit a motion in writing to
convert the joint application to a
sole. The hearing is ended.”

I stood rooted to the spot while
the three Examiners filed out of the
room. I stood rooted while Burling-
ton and Spardleton shook hands and
chuckled and said nice going. I was
still rooted w'hen Burlington wrung
my hand and walked out. I finally
gathered my wits enough to ask
Spardleton. "What . . . what hap-
pened?”

"Old Burlington tried to pull a
fast one. Almost got away with it.”
"But we lost. Didn’t we?”

"No, sir.” Spardleton was packing

away my papers for me. "We've got
it in the bag now.”

"But how? I can’t understand.”
"It’s perfectly straightforward.
Callahan is the sole inventor; not
Marchare and Callahan jointly. Rule
45 states that you can always convert
a joint application to a sole when-
ever you have mistakenly filed a
joint application. That’s all there is
to it.”

"But even if sve convert to a
sole, how does that help us?”
"Well, it’s that beautiful record
you’ve built up. Now' that Marchare
is no longer a co-inventor the law
says that his testimony becomes ad-
missible as a supporting witness.
You don’t think the Board would
believe that bunch of crooks and not
believe Marchare, do you?”

"Oh, no. Oh, no. Heavens, no.”
"Of course not. As a co-inventor
Marchare is considered the equiva-
lent of a liar; tribunals wmn’t even
listen to him. But as a plain w'itness
he’s better than having a Supreme
Court justice. We’re all set now.
Burlington knows he’s beaten. Let’s
g°”

I found I could still move my
feet. As I stumbled out the door
after him he took my arm in a
friendly w r ay. "It’s just like I’ve
always told you,” he said, "you must
have faith. The Senior Party almost
always wins an Interference.”

THE END

110

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

DOUBLE STAR

Conclusion. “ — and one day, he woke up, and
behold! he wasn’t there any more!” Lorenzo the
Magnificent quite truly lost himself in his work!

BY ROBERT A. HE1NLEIN

Illustrated by Freas

SYNOPSIS

1 am the Great Lorenzo, the finest
character actor in the Solar System
Empire. My interest in Imperial pol-
itics is less than nothing. Had l
known that this impersonation job
that space pilot Captain Dak Broad-
bent offered me would gel me mixed
up in politics 1 would have run, not
walked, to the nearest exit. Unfor-
tunately 1 was between engagements
at the time and short of funds — -
broke, to be blunt. 1 let him swindle
me into it, then l was swept along

by events — unwilling witness to the
murder of another Earthman and of
the death of the Martian who killed
him, then accomplice after the fact
through being coerced by Broadbent
into helping to dispose of the bodies.
A fugitive now, 1 let myself be
shanghaied aboard the spaceship Tom
Paine and we were torching for Mars,
and l still did not know what the
job was for which l had been hired.

But when they at last showed me
whom l was to impersonate 1 was
ready to scream. It was Bonforle — •
the Right Honorable John Joseph

DOUBLK STAR

111

Bonjorte, former Supreme Minister
of the Empire and noiv leader of the
loyal opposition, head of the Expan-
sionist coalition and the most loved
— and most hated! — man in the
Solar System.

Shanghaied , vulnerable to half a
dozen criminal charges, l had no
choice; 1 buckled down to work,
studying stereo movies, studying re-
cordings of his voice. 1 was coached
in it by his private secretary, Penelope
Russell. Penny was most attractive
but 1 was in no mood to appreciate
her — and besides she had only con-
tempt for me, an actor who was to
substitute for her beloved boss, while
my mind was preoccupied by the
strong conviction that I ivas being
set up as a clay pigeon, to be assas-
sinated in Bonforte’s place.

Dak Broadbent tried to quiet my
fears: Bon forte had been kidnaped by
political enemies from the Humanity
Party just before Bonforte was to
be adopted into the Nest ( or Martian
tribal family) of Kkkahgral the
Younger. This would be a political
coup of the greatest importance, both
for the Expansionist Party and for
the human race, as it would prob-
ably lead eventually to bringing Mars
and the Martians wholly into the
Empire — whereas if Bonforte failed
to show up, the Martians would be
mortally offended, so much so that
it might result in a progrom of all
humans on Mars . . . which could
set off an interplanetary war which
would exterminate every Martian.

I did not mind that too much; 1
despised Martians, especially the way

112

they smelled. What troubled me was
the thought that the same tough
hombres who kidnaped Bonforte to
keep him from showing up for the
adoption ceremony ivould not blink
at killing me to keep me from show-
ing up in his place. 1 told Dak
Broadbent so.

He assured me that the peculiari-
ties of Martian psychology were such
that while the Martians would be un-
forgivingly offended if Bonforte
simply failed to keep the date while
alive, nevertheless if he were killed
to prevent his keeping the date they
ivould be just as offended— -.but at
the persons who had killed him. Con-
sequently Bonforte’s political ene-
mies did not dare to resort to simple
assassination.

It struck me as a shaky theory on
which to stake my own skin but
again 1 had no choice.

Hypnosis was used on me by Dr.
Capek, Bonforte’s physician, to re-
move my extreme dislike for Mar-
tians. He borrowed some of Penny’s
perfume and implanted a suggestion
in me that Martians smelled like
"Jungle Lust.” The silly trick worked.

I studied Bonforte all the way to
Mars. W e made rendezvous with the
torchship Go For Broke in a parking
orbit around Mars and tivo . others
joined us there: Roger Clifton, Bon-
forte’s deputy and political factotum,
and Bill Corpsman, his public rela-
tions man. 1 liked Clifton but Bill
Corpsman a:id I rubbed each other
the wrong way at once — he insisted
on treating me as a hired hand,
while, confound it, a professional

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

man has his pride, his dignity, his
proper status.

But there was not time for person-
alities; the adoption ceremony was
almost on top of us. W e took a
shuttle rocket down and landed at
the skyport between Goddard City,
the human colony where we believed
Bonjorte was being held, and the
Nest of Kkkahgral. We cut it fine
for my own safely, so that l would
not hare to risk going into the hu-
man colony. It seemed strange to be
safer among Martians than among
my own kind, but it seemed even
stranger to be on Mars.

Since I was — or teas impersonating
■ — a V.I.P., my party was met at the
skyport by the resident commission-
er, Mr. Boothroyd, who had a car
waiting to take ns to the Martian
city. An impersonation is as fragile
as a woman s reputation; this one
almost failed at once — for Booth-
royd’ s teen-age daughter wanted my
autograph — and l had not had time
to learn to forge Bonforte’s signa-
ture. 1 pul her off by promising to
mail an autographed picture instead,
and we piled into the car. Once
clear of the port the driver tried
to wreck us. We captured him, Dak
took over the wheel and delivered
me — on time — to the Martian Nest.
The others left to take the driver
out into the sand dunes to strongarm
some information out of him while
I climbed the ramp and entered the
Martian City.

The details of my adoption into
a Martian family are as secret as the
ritual of a lodge initiation. Let it

stand that I had been carefully
coached in my responses and that
somehow l got through without
stumbling. The Martian language is
terribly difficult for the human
throat at best and it was made no
easier by the presence at my elbow
throughout the ceremonies of a
dozen adult Martians, each clutching
a life-wand in his psuedolimbs ■ . .
and I knew only too well that it
took only a tiny pressure on a life-
wand to give me eternal quietus.

Apparently I made no important
mistakes; l lived through it. At last
I was allou’ed to leave — a Martian
citizen now myself, with thousands
of Martian brothers and cousins, a
Martian name of my own, and a
Martian life-wand in my band,
badge of my adult Martian status.
Penny was waiting for me outside
the gates of the nest.

I was so happy and so relieved
that l did not notice at first how
terribly upset she was. Then l press-
ed her to explain:

Dak and the others had forced
the driver to talk, they bad located
the place where Bonforte was being
held and had rescued him . . . but
almost too late; the scoundrels had
brain-washed him — given him an
infection of a cocaine derivative into
his forebrain and had turned him
temporarily into a mindless hulk of
living flesh. I wanted to throw up;
brain-washing is worse than murder,
it strikes at the soul.

But there was no time for weak-
ness; 1 returned to the Tom Paine
still as Bonforte while Dak smug-

113

DOUBLE STAR

gled the reel Bonforte aboard as
cargo. For the time being 1 had to
remain in the role; Bonforte was
too ill even to make a television
appearance — so I delivered a Grand
Network speech for him, speaking
from the Tom Paine. But not with-
out having more friction with Bill
Corpsman, who had ghosted a draft
of the speech in a style which I
found to be utterly incompatible
with Bonforte’s personality and
manner.

My speech may have been too
effective; within hours after it the
government of Supreme Minister
Oniroga, leader of the Humanity
Parly, had resigned — and- the Em-
peror had called- on Bonforte as
leader of the opposition to form a
caretaker government until general
elections cordd be held. This was
exactly what Bonforte, Clifton,
Broadbent, and all their colleagues
had been working to achieve. But
there was one small hitch — poor
brain-washed Bonforte was in no
shape to appear before the Emperor.

It was possible that Dr. Capek
could get him in shape during the
voyage to New Batavia on Luna, but
torchships go so fast that it. was by
no means certain. Yet if he failed
to appear, all our efforts would fail,
too, and it was even possible that
the perilous impersonation inside
the Martian Nest would be revealed.
Broadbent and Clifton pressed me
to continue the role and, if neces-
sary, appear before the Emperor in
Bonforte’s place.

This time 1 turned mulish. To

114

impersonate Bonforte in front' of
Martians — who probably don’t see
details in humans any better than
we see details in them — was one
thing; to impersonate him at the
Imperial capital before the Emperor,
all the court, and hundreds of peo-
ple who knew him well ... it was
simply impossible, and l told them
so.

Then Fenny talked to me. I am
a fool; I agreed.

The trip from Mars to Luna was
a sleepless period of intensive coach-
ing for me. I not only studied Bon-
forte’s written works and every
speech he had ever recorded, I
studied also his mammoth Parley file
of all his political associations. With
hypnosis and stimulant pills 1 tried
to cover a busy lifetime in days.

The formal audience at the im-
perial court was easy, just like a
stage play with all lines set. I ap-
peared before my sovereign lord,
Willem of Orange, King of the
Lowlands and Empire of the Planets,
and was called back into his service.
/ presented my proposed cabinet.

But then came the real audience
in the Emperor’s private office, a
relaxed and casual, man-to-mnn
meeting. Willem seemed unsuspi-
cious; we had a drink together, dis-
cussed Empire politics, my proposed
cabinet, and we made one minor
change in the line-up. I was begin-
ning to relax and actually enjoyed
myself when he look me into his
workshop and showed me his model
trains. Then we went back to his
office, fust as I thought he was about

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

to let me leave be looked at me and
said quietly, "By the way, who are
you?”

I aged inside to match my appear-
ance.

PART 3

"Come, now,” he said impatient-
ly, "surely my job carries with it
some privileges. Just tell me the
truth. I've known for the past hour
that you were not Joseph Bonforte
— though you could fool his own
mother; you even have his manner-
1 isms. But who are you?”

"My name is Lawrence Smith,
Your Majesty,” I said faintly.

"Brace up, man ! I could have
called the guards long since, if I
had been intending to. Were you
sent here to assassinate me?”

"No, Sire. Iam... loyal to Your
Majesty.”

"You have an odd way of show-
ing it. Well, pour yourself another
drink, sit down, and tell me about
it.”

I told him about it, every bit. It
took more than one drink and pres-
ently I felt better. He looked angry
when I told him of the kidnaping,
but when I told him what they had
done to Bonfortc’s mind his face
turned dark with a Jovian rage.

At last he said quietly, "It’s just
a matter of days until he is back
in shape, then?”

"So Dr. Capek says.”

"Don't let him go to work until
he is fully recovered. He’s a valua-
ble man. You know that, don’t you?

Worth six of you and me. So you
carry on with the doubling job and
let him get well. The Empire needs
him.”

"Yes, Sire.”

"Knock off that ’Sire.’ Since you
are standing in for him, call me
’Willem,’ as he does. Did you know
that was how I spotted you?”
"No, Si . . . no, Willem.”

"He’s called me Willem for
twenty years. I thought it decidedly
odd that he would quit it in private
simply because he was seeing me on
state business. But I did not suspect,
not really. But, remarkable as your
performance was, it set me thinking.
Then, when we went in to see the
trains, I knew.”

"Excuse me? How?”

"You were polite, man! I’ve made
him look at my trains in the past . . .
and he always got even by being
as rude as possible about what a
way for a grown man to waste time.
It was a little act we always went
through. We both enjoyed it.”
"Oh. I didn’t know.”

"How could you have known?”
I was thinking that I should have
known, that damned Farleyfilc
should have told me ... it was
not unitl later that I realized that the
file had not been defective, in view
of the theory on which it was based,
i.e., it was intended to let a famous
man remember details about the
less famous. But that was precisely
what the Emperor was not . . . less
famous, I mean. Of course Bonforte
needed no notes to recall personal
details about Willem! Nor would

DOUBLK STAR

115

he consider it proper to set down
personal matters about the sovereign
in a file handled by his clerks.

I had muffed the obvious- not

that I see how I could have avoided
it, even if I had realized that the
file would be incomplete.

But the Emperor was still talking.
"You did a magnificent job-— and
after risking your life in a Martian
nest I am not surprised that you
were willing to tackle me. Tell me,
have I ever seen you in stereo, or
anywhere?”

I had given my legal name, of
course, when the Emperor demand-
ed it; I now rather timidly gave my
professional name. He looked at me,
threw up his hands and guffawed.
I was somewhat hurt. "Er, have you
heard of me?”

"Heard of you? I’m one of your
staunchest fans.” He looked at me
very closely. "But you still look like
Joe Bonforte. I can’t believe that
you are Lorenzo.”

"But I am.”

"Oh, I believe it, I believe it.
You know that skit where you are
a tramp? First you try to milk a
cow ... no luck. Finally you end
up eating out of the cat’s dish —
but even the cat pushes you away?”

I admitted it.

''I’ve almost worn out my spool
of that. I laugh and cry at the same
time.”

"That is the idea.” I hesitated,
then admitted that the barnyard
"Weary Willie” routine had been
copied from a very great artist of

116

another century. "But I prefer
dramatic roles.”

"Like this one?”

"Well . . . not exactly. For this
role, once is quite enough. I would-
n’t care for a long run.”

"I suppose so. Well, tell Roger
Clifton— No, don’t tell Clifton any-
thing. Lorenzo, I see nothing to be
gained by ever telling anyone about
our conversation this past hour. If
you tell Clifton, even though you
tell him that I said not to worry,
it would just give him nerves. And
he has work to do. So we keep it
tight, eh?”

"As my Emperor wishes.”

"None of that, please. We’ll keep
it quiet because it’s best so. Sorry
I can’t make a sickbed visit on
Uncle Joe. Not that I could help
him — although they used to think
the King’s Touch did marvels. So
we’ll say nothing and pretend that
I never twigged.”

"Yes . . . Willem.”

"I suppose you had better go
now. I’ve kept you a very long
time.”

"Whatever you wish.”

"I’ll have Pateel go back with
you — or do you know your, way
around? But just a moment— He
dug around in his desk, muttering
to himself. "That girl must have
been straightening things again. No
. . . here it is.” He hauled out a
little book. "I probably won’t get
to see you again ... so would )'ou
mind giving me your autograph
before you go?”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

Rog and Bill I found chewing
their nails in Bonforte’s upper liv-
ing room. The second I showed up
Corpsman started toward me.
"Where have you been?”

"With the Emperor,” I answered
coldly.

"You’ve been gone five or six
times as long as you should have
been.”

1 did not bother to answer. Since
the argument over the speech Corps-
man and I had gotten along to-
gether and worked together, but it
was strictly a marriage of conven-
ience, with no love. We co-operated,
but we did not really bury the
hatchet — unless it was between my
shoulder blades. I had made no spe-
cial effort to conciliate him and saw
no reason why I should — in my
opinion his parents had met briefly
at a masquerade ball.

I don’t believe in rowing with
other members of the company, but
the only behavior Corpsman would
willingly accept from me was that
of a servant, hat in hand and very
’umble, sir. I would not give him
that, even to keep peace. I was a
professional, retained to do a very
difficult professional job, and pro-
fessional men do not use the back
stairs; they are treated with respect.

So 1 ignored him and asked Rog,
"Where’s Penny?”

"With him. So are Dak and Doc,
at the moment.”

"He’s here?”

"Yes.” Clifton hesitated. "We

put him in what is supposed to be
the wife’s room of your bedroom
suite. It was the only place where
we could maintain utter privacy and
still give him the care he needs.
I hope you don’t mind.”

"Not at all.”

"It won’t inconvenience you. The
two bedrooms are joined, you may
have noticed, only through the dress-
ing rooms, and we've shut off that
door. It’s soundproof.”

"Sounds like a good arrangement.
How is he?”

Clifton frowned. "Better, much
better ... on the whole. He is lucid
much of the time.” He hesitated.
"You can go in and see him, if you
like.”

I hesitated still longer. "How
soon does Dr. Capek think he will
be ready to make public appear-
ances?”

"It’s hard to say. Before long.”

"How long? Three or four days?
A short enough time that we could
cancel all appointments and just put
me out of sight? Rog, I don’t know
just how to make this clear but,
much as I would like to call on him
and pay my respects, I don’t think
it is smart for me to see him at all
until after I have made my last
appearance. It might well ruin my
characterization.” I had made the
terrible mistake of going to my
father’s funeral; for years thereafter
when I thought of him I saw him
dead in his coffin. Only very slowly
did I regain the true image of him
• — the virile, dominant man who had
reared me with a firm hand and

DOUBLE STAR

117

taught me my trade. I was afraid
of something like that with Bon-
forte; 1 was now impersonating a
well man at the height of his pow'ers,
the way I had seen him and heard
him in the many stereo records of
him. I was very much afraid that,
if I saw him ill, the recollection of
it would blur and distort my per-
formance.

"I was not insisting,” Clifton an-
swered. "You know best. It’s pos-
sible that we can keep from having
you appear in public again, but I
want to keep you standing by and
ready until he is fully recovered.”

I almost said the Emperor wanted
it done that way. But I caught my-
self — the shock of having the Em-
peror find me out had shaken me
a little out of character. But the
thought reminded me of unfinished

business. I took out the revised
cabinet list and handed it to Corps-
man. "Here’s the approved roster
for the news services, Bill. You’ll see
that there is one change on it — ’de
la Torre’ for ’Braun.’ ”

"What?”

"Jesus de la Torre for Lothar
Braun. That’s the way the Emperor
wanted it.”

Clifton looked astonished; Corps-
man looked both atsonished and i
angry. ’"What difference does that
make? He’s got no right to have
opinions !”

Clifton said slowly, "Bill is right,

Chief. As a lawyer who has special-
ized in constitutional law I assure
you that the sovereign’s confirma-
tion is purely nominal. You should
not have let him make any changes.”

I felt like shouting at them, and
only the imposed calm personality

318

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

of Bon forte kept me from it. I had
had a hard day and, despite a bril-
liant performance, the inevitable dis-
aster had overtaken me. I wanted to
tell Rog that if Willem had not been
a really big man, kingly in the fine
sense of the word, we would all
be in the soup — simply because I
had not been adequately coached for
the role. Instead I answered sourly,
"It’s done and that’s that.’’

Corpsman said, "That’s what you
think! I gave out the correct list to
the reporters two hours ago. Now
you’ve got to go back and straighten
it out. Rog, you had better call the
Palace right away and — ”

I said, "Quiet!”

Corpsman shut up. I went on in a
lower key. "Rog, from a legal point
of view, you may be right. I would-
n’t know. I do know that the Em-
peror felt free to question the ap-
pointment of Braun. Now if either
one of you want to go to the Em-
peror and argue with him, that’s up
to you. But I’m not going anywhere.
I’m going to get out of this anach-
ronistic strait jacket, take my shoes
off, and have a long tall drink. Then
I’m going to bed.”

"Now wait, Chief.” Clifton ob-
jected. "You’ve got a five-minute
spot on grand network to announce
the new cabinet.”

"You take it. You’re first deputy
in this cabinet.”

He blinked. "All right.”
Corpsman said insistently, "How
about Braun? He was promised the
job.”

Clifton looked at him thought-

fully. "Not in any dispatch that I
saw, Bill. He was simply asked if
he were willing to serve, like all
the others. Is that what you meant?”
Corpsman hesitated like an actor
not quite sure of his lines. "Of
course. But it amounts to a prom-
ise.”

"Not until the public announce-
ment is made, it doesn’t.”

"But the announcement was made,
I tell you. Two hours ago.”

"Mm-m-m . . . Bill, I’m afraid
that you will have to call the boys
in again and tell them that you made
a mistake. Or I’ll call them in and
tell them that through an error a
preliminary list was handed out be-
fore Mr. Bonforte had O.K.'d it.
But we’ve got to correct it before
the grand network announcement.”
"Do you mean to tell me you are
going to let him get away with it?”
By "him” I think Bill meant me,
rather than Willem; but Rog’s an-
swer assumed the contrary. "Yes.
Bill, this is no time to force a con-
stitutional crisis. The issue isn’t
worth it. So will you phrase the
retraction? Or shall I?”

Corpsman’s expression reminded
me of the way a cat submits to the
inevitable . . . "just barely.” He
looked grim, shrugged, and said,
"I’ll do it. I want to be sure it is
phrased properly, so we can salvage
as much as possible out of the
shambles.”

"Thanks, Bill,” Rog answered
mildly.

Corpsman turned to leave. I call-
ed out, "Bill! As long as you are

DOUBI. E STAR

119

going to be talking to the news
service's I have another announce-
ment for them.”

"Huh? What are you after now?”
"Nothing much.” The fact was I
was suddenly overcome with weari-
ness at the role and the tensions it
created, "just tell them that Mr.
Bonforte has a cold and his physi-
cian has ordered him to bed lor a
rest. I’ve had a bellyful.”

Corpsman snorted. "I think I’ll
make it 'pneumonia.’

"Suit yourself.”

When he had gone Rog turned
to me and said, "Don’t let it get
you, Chief. In this business, some
days are, better than others.”

"Rog, I really am going on the
sick list. You can mention it on
stereo tonight.”

"So?”

"I’m going to take to my bed and
stay there. There is no reason at
all why Bonforte can’t ’have a cold’
until he is ready to get back into
harness himself. Every time I make
an appearance it just increases the
probability that somebody will spot
something wrong . . . and every
time I do make an appearance that
sorehead Corpsman finds something
to yap about. An artist can’t do his
best work with somebody continual-
ly snarling at him. So let’s let it go
at this and ring down the curtain.”
"Take it easy, Chief. I’ll keep
Corpsman out of your hair from
now on. Here we won't be in each
other’s laps the way we were in the
ship.”

"No, Rog, my mind is made up.
Oh, I won’t run out on you. I’ll
stay here until Mr. B. is able to see
people, in case some utter emergency
turns up” — I was recalling uneasily
that the Emperor had told me to
hang on and had assumed that I
would — "but it is actually better to
keep me out of sight. At the mo-
ment we have gotten away with it
completely, haven’t we? Oh, they
know — somebody knows — that Bon-
forte was not the man who went
through the adoption ceremony . . .
but they don’t dare raise that issue,
nor could they prove it if they did.
The same people may suspect that
a double was used today, but they
don’t know, they can't be sure -
because it is always possible that
Bonforte recovered quickly enough
to carry it off today. Right?”

Clifton got an odd, half sheepish
look on his face. "I’m afraid they
are fairly sure you were a double,
Chief.”

"Eh?”

"We shaded the truth a little to
keep you from being nervous. Doc
Capek was certain from the time he
first examined him that only a mira-
cle could get him in shape to make
the audience today. The people who
dosed him would know that, too.”
I frowned. "Then you were kid-
ding me earlier when you told me
how well he was doing? How is
he, Rog? Tell me the truth.”

"I was telling you the truth that
time, Chief. That's why I suggested
that you see him . . . whereas before
I was only too glad to string along

120

ASTOUNDING SCIENCS FICTION

with your reluctance to see him.”
He added, "Perhaps you had better
see him, talk with him.”

"Mm-m-m . . . no.” The reasons
for not seeing him still applied; if
I did have to make another appear-
ance I did not want my subconscious
playing me tricks. The role called
for a well man. "But, Rog, every-
thing I said applies still more
emphatically on the basis of what
you have just told me. If they are
even reasonably sure that a double
was used today, then we don't dare
risk another appearance. They were
caught by surprise today . . or

perhaps it was impossible to unmask
me, under the circumstances. But
it will not be, later. They can rig
some deadfall, some test that I can’t
pass . . . then blooie! there goes the
old ball game.” I thought about it.
”1 had better be 'sick' as long as
necessary. Bill was right; it had bet-
ter be 'pneumonia.' ”

Such is the power of suggestion
that I woke up the next morning
with a stopped-up nose and a sore
throat. Dr. Capek took time to dose
me and 1 felt almost human by
supper time; nevertheless he issued
bulletins about "Mr. Bonforte’s virus
infection.” The sealed and air-
conditioned cities of the Moon being
what they are, nobody was anxious
to be exposed to an air-vectored
ailment; no determined effort was
made to get past my chaperones.
For four days I loafed and read from
Bonforte s library, both his own col-
lected papers and his many books

... I discovered that both politics
and economics could make engross-
ing reading; those subjects had
never been real to me before. The
Emperor sent me flowers from the
Royal greenhouse — or were they for
me?

Never mind. I loafed and soaked
in the luxury of being Lorenzo, or
even plain Lawrence Smith. I found
that I dropped back into character
automatically if someone came in,
but I can't help that. It was not
necessary; I saw no one but Penny
and Capek, except for one visit from
Dak.

But even lotus-eating can pall.
By the fourth day I was as tired of
that room as I had ever been of a
producer's waiting room and I was
lonely. No one bothered with me;
Capek’s visits had been brisk and
professional, and Penny’s visits had
been short and few. She had stopped
calling me "Mr. Bgmforte.”

When Dak showed up I was de-
lighted to see him. "Dak! What's
new?”

"Not much. I’ve been trying to
get the Tommie overhauled with
one hand while helping Rog with
political chores with the other. Get-
ting this campaign lined up is going
to give him ulcers, three gets you
eight.” He sat down. "Politics!”

"Hm-m-m — Dak, how did you
ever get into it? Offhand, I would
figure voyageurs to be as unpolitical
as actors. And you in particular."

"They are and they aren’t. Most
ways they don't give a damn whether
school keeps or not, as long as they

121

DOUBI.F. STAR

can keep on herding junk through
the sky. But to do that you’ve got
to have cargo, and cargo means
wide-open trade, with any ship free
to go anywhere, no customs non-
sense and no restricted areas. Free-
dom! And there you are; you're in
politics. As for myself, I came here
first for a spot of lobbying for the
'continuous voyage’ rule, so that
goods on the triangular trade would
not pay two duties. It was Mr. B.s
bill, of course. One thing led to
another and here I am, skipper of
his yacht the past six years and
representing my guild brothers since
the last general election.” He sighed.
"I hardly know how it happened
myself.”

"I suppose you are anxious to get
out of it. Are you going to stand
for re-election?”

He stared at me. "Huh? Brother,
until you’ve been in politics you
haven’t been alive.'’

"But you said — ”

"I know what I said. It’s rough
and sometimes it’s dirty and it’s al-
ways hard work and tedious details.
But it’s the only sport for grown-
ups. All other games are for kids.
All of ’em.” He stood up. "Gotta
run.”

”Oh, stick around.”

"Can’t. With the Grand Assem-
bly convening tomorrow I’ve got to
dive Roe a hand. I shouldn’t have

O O

stopped in at all.”

"ft is? I didn’t know.” I was
aware that the G.A., the outgoing
G.A., that is, had to meet one more

122

time, to accept the caretaker cabinet.
But I had not thought about it. It
was a routine matter, as perfunctory
as presenting the list to the Emperor.
"Is he going to be able to make it?”

"No. But don’t you worry about
it. Rog will apologize to the house
for your ... I mean his absence . . .
and will ask for a proxy rule under
no objection procedure. Then he
will read the speech of the Supreme
Minister Designate — Bill is working
on it right now. Then in his own
person he will move that the gov-
ernment be confirmed. Second. No
debate. Pass. Adjourn sine die . . .
and everybody rushes for home and
starts promising the voters a hun-
dred Imperials every Mbnday morn-
ing. Routine.” He added, "Oh, yes!
Some member of the Humanity Party
will move a resolution of sympathy
and a basket of flowers, which will
pass in a fine hypocritical glow.
They’d rather send flowers to Bon-
forte’s funeral.” He scowled.

"It is actually as simple as that?
What would happen if the proxy
rule were refused? I thought the
Grand Assembly didn’t recognize
jaroxies.”

"They don’t, for all ordinary
procedure. You either pair, or you
show up and vote. But this is just
the idler wheels going around in
parliamentary machinery. If they
don’t let him appear by proxy to-
morrow, then they’ve got to wait
around until he is well before they
can adjourn sine die and get on with
the serious business of hypnotizing
the voters. As it is, a mock quorum

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

has been meeting daily and adjourn-
ing ever since Quiroga resigned.
This Assembly is as dead as Caesar's
ghost, but it has to be buried con-
stitutionally.”

"Yes . . . but suppose some idiot
did object?”

"No one will. Oh, it could force
a constitutional crisis. But it won’t
happen."

Neither one of us said anything
for a while. Dak made no move to
leave. "Dak, would it make things
easier if I showed up and gave that
speech?”

"Huh? Shucks, I thought that was
settled. You decided that it wasn’t
safe to risk another appearance short
of an utter save-the-baby emergency.
On the whole, I agree with you.
There’s the old saw about the pitcher
and the well.”

"Yes. But this is just a walk-
through, isn’t it? Lines as fixed as
a play? Would there be any chance
of anyone pulling any surprises on
me that I couldn’t handle?’’

"Well, no. Ordinarily you would
be expected to talk to the press after-
wards, but your recent illness is an
excuse. We could slide you through
the security tunnel and avoid them
entirely.” He smiled grimly. "Of
course, there is always the chance
that some crackpot in the visitors’
gallery has managed to sneak in a
gun . . . Mr. B. always referred to
it as the 'shooting gallery’ after
they winged him from it.”

My leg gave a sudden twinge.
"Are you trying to scare me off?”
"No.”

"You pick a funny way to en-
courage me. Dak, be level with me.
Do you want me to do this job to
morrow? Or don’t you?”

"Of course I do! Why the devil
do you think I stopped in on a busy
day? Just to chat?”

The Speaker pro teinpore banged
his gavel, the chaplain gave an invo-
cation that carefully avoided any dif-
ferences between one religion and
another . . . and everyone kept
silent. The seats themselves were
only half filled but the gallery was
packed with tourists.

We heard the ceremonial knock-
ing amplified over the speaker sys-
tem; the Sergeant- at-Arms rushed
the mace to the door. Three times
the Emperor demanded to be admit-
ted, three times he was refused.
Then he prayed the privilege; it was
granted by acclamation. We stood
while Willem entered and took his
seat back of the Speaker’s desk. He
was in uniform as Admiral General
and was unattended, as was required,
save by escort of the Speaker and
the Sergeant-at-Arms.

Then I tucked my wand under my
arm and stood up at my place at the
front bench and, addressing the
Speaker as if the Sovereign were not
present, I delivered my speech. It
was not the one Corpsman had writ-
ten; that one went down the oubli-
ette as soon as I had read it. Bill
had made it a straight campaign
speech, and it was the wrong time
and place.

Mine was short, non-partisan, and

DOUBLE STAR

123

cribbed right straight out of Bon-
forte's collected writings, a para-
phrase of the one the time before
when he formed a caretaker govern-
ment. I stood foursquare for good
roads and good weather and wished
that everybody would love every-
body else, just the way all us good
democrats loved our Sovereign and
he loved us. It was a blank-verse
lyric poem of about five hundred
words and if I varied from Bon-
forte's earlier speech then I simply
went up on my lines.

They had to quiet the gallery.

Hog got up and moved that the
names I had mentioned in passing
be confirmed — second and no objec-
tion and the clerk cast a white ballot.
As I marched forward attended by
one member of my own party and
one member of the opposition I
could see members glancing at their
watches and wondering if they
could still catch the noon shuttle.

Then I was swearing allegiance
to my Sovereign, under and subject
to the constitutional limitations,
swearing to defend and continue the
rights and privileges of the Grand
Assembly, and to protect the free-
doms of the citizens of the Empire
wherever they might be — and in-
cidentally to carry out the duties of
His Majesty’s Supreme Minister.
The chaplain mixed up the words
once, but 1 straightened him out.

I thought I was breezing through
it as easy as a curtain speech — when
I found that I was crying so hard
that I could hardly see. When I was
done, Willem said quietly to me,

124

"A good performance, Joseph.” 1
don’t know whether he thought he
was talking to me, or to his old
friend — and I did not care. I did not
wipe away the tears; I just let them
drip as I turned back to the Assem-
bly. I waited for Willem to leave,
then adjourned them.

Diana, Ltd., ran four extra shut-
tles that afternoon. New Batavia was
deserted . . . that is to say there were
only the Court and a million or so
butchers, bakers, candlestick makers
and civil servants left in town —
and a skeleton cabinet.

Having gotten over my "cold”
and appeared publicly in the Grand
Assembly Hall it no longer made
sense to hide out. As the supposed
Supreme Minister I could not, with-
out causing comment, never be seen;
as the nominal head of" a political
party entering a campaign for a
general election I had to see people
. . . some people, at least. So I did
what I had to do and got a daily
report on Bonforte’s progress toward
complete recovery. His progress was
good, if slow; Capek reported that
it was possible, if absolutely neces-
sary, to let him appear any time
now — but he advised against it; he
had lost almost twenty pounds and
his co-ordination was poor.

Rog did everything possible to
protect both of us. Mr. Bonforte
knew now that they were using a
double for him and, after a first fit
of indignation, had relaxed to neces-
sity and approved it. Rog ran the
campaign, consulting him only on

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

matters of high policy, and then
passing on his answers, to me to
hand out publicly when necessary.

But the protection given me was
almost as great; I was as hard to see
as a top-flight agent. My offices ran
on , into the mountain beyond the
opposition leader's apartments (we
did not move over into the Supreme
Minister’s more palatial quarters;
while it would have been legal, it
just "was not done” during a care-
taker regime) — my offices could be
reached from the rear directly from
the lower living room but to get at
me from the public entrance a man
had to pass about five check points
— except for the favored few who
were conducted directly by Rog
through a by-pass tunnel to Penny’s
office and from there into mine.

The set-up meant that I could
study the Farle-yfile on anyone be-
fore he got to see me. I could even
keep it in front of me w'hile he w'as
with me, for the desk had a recessed
viewer the visitor could not see, yet
I could wipe it out instantly if he
turned out to be a floor pacer. The
viewer had other uses; Rog could
give a visitor the special treatment,
rushing, him right in to see me, leave
him alone with m6 — and stop in
Penny’s office and write me a note,
which would then be projected on
the viewer . . . such quick tips as:
"Kiss him to death and promise
nothing” or "All he really wants is
for his wife to be presented at Court.
Promise him that and get rid of
him” — or even: "Easy on this one.
It’s a 'swing’ district and he is

DOUBLE STAR

12E

smarter than he looks. Turn him
over to me and I’ll dicker.”

I don’t know who ran the gov-
ernment. The senior career men,
probably. There would be a stack of
papers on my desk each morning,
I would sign Bonforte’s sloppy sig-
nature to them, and Penny would
take them away. I never had time to
read them. The very size of the
Imperial machinery dismayed me.
Once, when we had to attend a
meeting outside the offices, Penny
had led me on what she called a
short cut through the Archives . . .
miles on miles of endless files, each
one chock-a-block with microfilm
and all of them with moving belts
scooting past them so that a clerk
would not take all day to fetch one
file.

But Penny told me that she had
taken me through only one wing of
it. The file of the files, she said,
occupied a cavern the size of the
Grand Assembly Hall. It made me
glad that government was not a
career with me, but merely a passing
hobby, so to speak.

Seeing people was an unavoidable
chore, largely useless since Rog, or
Bonforte through Rog, made the
decisions. My real job was to make
campaign speeches. A discreet rumor
had been spread that my doctor had
been afraid that my heart had been
strained by the "virus infection” and
had advised me to stay in the low
gravity of the Moon throughout the
campaign. I did not dare risk taking
the impersonation on a tour of Earth,
much less make a trip to Venus; the

126

Farleyfile system would break down
if I attempted to mix with crowds,
not to mention the unknown hazards
of the Actionist goon squads — what
I would babble with a minim dose
of neodexocaine in the forebrain
none of 11s liked to think about, me
least of all.

Quiroga was hitting all six con-
tinents on Earth, making his stereo
appearances as personal appearances
on platforms in front of crowds. But
it did not worry Rog Clifton. He
shrugged and said, "Let him. There
are no new votes to be picked up by
personal appearances at political
rallies. All it does is wear out tire
speaker. Those rallies are attended
only by the faithful.”

I hoped that he knew what he
was talking about. The campaign
was short, only six weeks from
Quiroga’s resignation to the day he
had set for the election before re-
signing, and I was speaking almost
every day, either on a grand net-
work with time shared precisely
with the Humanity Party, or
speeches canned and sent by shuttle
for later release to particular audi-
ences. We had a set routine; a draft
would come to me, perhaps from
Bill although I never saw him, and
then I would rework it. Rog would
take the revised draft away; usually
it would come back approved . . .
and once in a while there would be
corrections made in Bonforte’s hand-
writing, now so sloppy as to be al-
most illegible.

I never ad-libbed at all on those
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

parts he corrected, though I often
did on the rest- — fwhen you get roll-
ing there is often a better, more
alive, way to say a thing, I began
to notice the nature of his, correc-
tions; they were almost always elim-
inations of qualifiers . . . make it
blunter, let ’em like it or lump it!

After a while there were fewer
corrections. 1 was getting with it.

I still never saw him. I felt that
1 could not "wear his head” if I
looked at him on his sickbed. But
I was not the only one who was not
seeing him of his intimate family;
Capek had chucked Penny out — for
her own good. I did not know it at
the time. I did know that Penny had
become irritable, absent-minded, and
moody after we reached New' Bata-
via. She got circles under her eyes
like a raccoon ... all of which I
could not miss, but I attributed it
to the pressure of the campaign
combined with worry about Bon-
forte’s health. I was , only partly
right. Capek spotted it and took ac-
tion, put her under light hypnosis
and asked her questions — then he
flatly forbade her to see Bonforte
again until I was done and finished
and shipped away.

The poor girl was going almost
out of her mind from visiting the
sick room of the man she hopelessly
loved — then going straight in to
work closely 'with a man w'ho looked
and talked and sounded just like
him, but in good health. She was
probably beginning to hate me.

Good old Doc Capek got at the
root of her trouble, gave her helpful

and soothing post-hypnotic sugges-
tions and kept her out of the sick
room after that. Naturally I was not
told about it at the time; it wasn’t
any of my business. But Penny
perked up and again was her lovable,
incredibly efficient self.

It made a lot of difference to me,
Let’s admit it; at least twice I would
have walked out on the whole in-
credible rat race if it had not been
for Penny.

There was one sort of meeting
I had to attend, those of the cam-
paign executive committee. Since the
Expansionist Party was a minority
party, being merely the largest frac-
tion of a coalition of several parties
held together by the leadership and
personality of John Joseph Bonforte,
I had to stand in for him and peddle
soothing syrup to those prinia don-
*nas. I was briefed for it with pains-
taking care, and Rog sat beside me
and could hint the proper direction
if I faltered. But it could not be
delegated.

Less than two w'eeks before elec-
tion day we were due for a meeting
at which the safe districts would be
parceled out. The organization al-
ways had thirty to forty districts
which could be used to make some-
one eligible for cabinet office, or to
provide for a political secretary — a
person like Penny was much more
valuable if he or she was fully quali-
fied, able to move and speak on the
floor of the Assembly, had the right
to be present at closed caucuses and
so forth — or for other party reasons.

DOUBLE STAR

127

Bonforte himself represented a
safe” district; it relieved him from
the necessity of precinct campaign-
ing. Clifton had another. Dak would
have had one if he had needed it,
but he actually commanded the sup-
port of his guild brethren. Rog even
hinted to me once that if I wanted
to come back in my proper person,
say the word and my name would
go on the next list.

Some of the spots were always
saved for party wheelhorses willing
to resign at a moment’s notice and
thereby provide the Party with a
place through a by-election if it
proved necessary to qualify a man
for cabinet office, or something.

But the whole thing had some-
what the flavor of patronage and,
the Coalition being what it was, it
was necessary for Bonforte to
straighten out conflicting claims and
submit a list to the, campaign execu-
tive committee. It was a last-minute
job, to be done just before the bal-
lots were prepared, to allow for late
changes.

When Rog and Dak came in I was
working on a speech and had told
Penny to hold off anything but five-
alarm fires. Quiroga had made a
wild statement in Sydney, Australia,
the night before, of such a nature
that we could expose the lie and
make him squirm. I was trying my
hand at a speech in answer, without
waiting for a draft to be handed
me; I had high hopes of getting my
own version approved.

When they came in I said, "Listen
to this,” and read them the key

128

paragraph. "How do you like it?”

"Thdt ought to nail his hide to
the door,” agreed Rog. "Here’s the
'safe’ list, Chief. Want to look it
over? We’re due there in twenty
minutes.”

"Oh, that damned meeting. I
don’t see why I should look at the
list. Anything you want to tell me
about it?” Nevertheless I took the
list and glanced down it. 1 knew
them all from their Farleyfilcs and a
few of them from contact; I knew
already why each one had to be
taken care of.

Then I struck the name: Corps-
man, William J.

I fought down what I felt was
justifiable annoyance and said quiet-
ly, "I see Bill is on the list, Rog.”

"Oh, yes. I wanted to tell you
about that. You see, Chief, as we
all know, there has been a certain
amount of bad blood between you
and Bill. Now I’m not blaming you;
it’s been Bill’s fault. But there are
always two sides. What yOu may not
have realized is that Bill has been
carrying around a tremendous in-
feriority feeling; it gives him a chip
on the shoulder. This will fix it up.”

"So?”

"Yes. It is what he has always
wanted. You see, the rest of us all
have official status, we’re members
of the G.A., I mean. I’m talking
about those who work closely
around, uh, you. Bill feels it. I’ve
heard him say, after the third drink,
that he was just a hired man. He’s
bitter about it. You don’t mind, do
you? The Party can afford it and it’s

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

an ; easy price to pay for elimination
of , friction at headquarters.”

I had myself under full control
by now. "It’s none of my business.
Why should I mind, if that is what
Mr. Bonforte wants?”

I; caught just a flicker of a glance
from Dak to Clifton. I added, "That
is what Mr. B. wants? Isn’t it,
Rog?”

Dak said harshly, "Tell him,
Rog.”

Rog said slowly, "Dak and I
whipped this up ourselves. We think
it is for the best.”

"Then Mr. Bonforte did not ap-
prove it? You asked him, surely?”
"No, we didn’t.”

"Why not?”

'Chief, this is not the sort of
thing to bother him with. He’s a
tired, old, sick man. I have not been
worrying him with anything less
than major policy decisions — which
this isn’t. It is a district we com-
mand no matter who stands for it.”
"Then why ask my opinion about
it at all?”

"Well, we felt you should know
. . . and know why. We think you
Ought to approve it.”

"Me? You’re asking me for a
decision as if I were Mr. Bonforte.
I’m not.” I tapped the desk in his
nervous gesture. "Either this deci-
sion is at his level, and you should
ask him — or it’s not, and you should
never have asked me.”

Rog chewed his cigar, then said,
"All right, I’m not asking you.”

" No!”

"What do you mean?”

"I mean 'No!’ You did ask me;
therefore there is doubt in your
mind. So, if you expect me to present
that name to the committee — as if
I were Bonforte — then go in and
ask him.”

They both sat and said nothing.
Finally Dak sighed and said, "Tell
the rest, Rog. Or I will.”

I waited. Clifton took his cigar
out of his mouth and said, "Chief,
Mr. Bonforte had a stroke four days
ago. He's in no shape to be dis-
turbed.”

I held still, and recited to myself
all of "the cloud-capped towers, the
gorgeous palaces,” and so forth.
When I was back in shape I said,
"How is his mind?”

"His mind seems clear enough,
but he is terribly tired. That week
as a prisoner was more of an ordeal
than we realized. The stroke left
him in a coma for twenty- four hours.
He’s out of it now, but the left side
of his face is paralyzed and his en-
tire left side is partly out of service.”
"Uh, what does Dr. Capek say?”
"He thinks that, as the clot clears
up, you’ll never be able to tell the
difference. But he'll have to take it
easier than he used to. But, Chief,
right now he is ill. We'll just have
to carry on through the balance of
the campaign without him.”

I felt a ghost of the lost feeling
I had had when my father died.
I had never seen Bonforte, I had
had nothing from him but a few
scrawded corrections on typeset ipt.
But I leaned on him all the way.

DOUBLE STAR

129

The fact that he was in that room
next door had made the whole thing
possible.

I took a long breath, let it out,
and said, "O.K., Rog. We'll have
to.”

"Yes, Chief.” He stood up.
"We’ve got to get over to that
meeting. How about that ?” He nod-
ed toward the safe-districts list.

"Oh.” I tried to think. Maybe it
was possible that Bonforte would
reward Bill with the privilege of
calling himself "The Honorable,”
just to keep him happy. He wasn’t
small about such things; he did not
bind the mouths of the kine who
tread the grain. In one of his essays
on politics he had said, "I am not
an intellectual man. If I have any
special talent, it lies in picking men
of ability and letting them work.”
"How long has Bill been with
him?” I asked suddenly.

"Eli? About four years. A little
over.”

Bonforte evidently had liked his
work. "That’s past one general elec-
tion, isn’t it? Why didn’t he make
him an assemblyman then?”

"Why, I don’t know. The matter
never came up.”

"When was Penny put in?”
"About three years ago. A by-
election.”

"There’s your answer, Rog.”

"I don’t follow you.”

"Bonforte could have made Bill
a Grand Assemblyman at any time.
He didn’t choose to. Change that
nomination to a 'resigner.’ Then if
Mr. Bonforte wants Bill to have it,

130

he can arrange a by-election for him
later . . . when he’s feeling him-
self.”

Clifton showed no expression. He
simply picked up the list and said,
"Very well, Chief.”

Later that same day Bill quit. I
suppose Rog had to tell him that
his arm-twisting had not worked.
But when Rog told me about it I
felt sick, realizing that my stiff-
necked attitude had us all in acute
danger. I told him so. He shook
his head.

"But he knows it all ! It was his
scheme from the start. Look at the
load of dirt he can haul over to the
Humanity camp.”

"Forget it, Chief. Bill may be a
louse — I’ve no use for a man who
will quit in the middle of a cam-
paign; you just don’t do that, ever.
But he is not a rat. In his profession
you don’t spill a client’s secrets, even
if you fall out with him.”

"I hope you are right.”

"You’ll see. Don’t worry about
it. Just get on with the job.”

As the next few days passed I
came to the conclusion that Rog
knew Bill better than I did. We
heard nothing from him nor about
him and the Campaign went ahead
as usual, getting rougher all the
time, but with not a peep to show
that our giant hoax was compro-
mised. I began to feel better and
buckled down to making the best
Bonforte speeches I could manage
. . . sometimes with Rog’s help;
sometimes just with his O.K. Mr.

ASTOUND TNG SCIENCE FICTION

Bon forte was steadily improving
again, but Capek had him on abso-
lute quiet.

Rog had to go to Earth during
the last week; there are types of
fence-mending that simply can't be
done by remote control. After all,
votes come from the precincts and
the field managers count for more
than the speech makers. But speeches
still had to be made and press con-
ferences given; I carried on, with
Dak and Penny at my elbow — of
course I was much more closely with
it now; most questions I could an-
swer without stopping to think.

There was the usual twice-weekly
press conference in the offices the
day Rog was due back. I had been
hoping that he would be back in
time for it, but there was no reason
I could not take it alone. Penny
walked in ahead of me, carrying her
gear; I heard her gasp.

I saw then that Bill was at the
far end of the table.

But I looked around the room as
usual and said, "Good morning,
gentlemen.”

"Good morning, Mr. Minister!”
most of them answered.

I added, "Good morning, Bill.
Didn’t know you were here. Whom
are you representing?”

They gave him dead silence to
reply. Every one of them knew that
Bill had quit us ... or had been
fired. He grinned at me, and an-
swered, "Good morning, Mr. Bon-
forte. I’m with the Krein Syndicate.”

I knew it was coming then; I tried
not to give him the satisfaction of

letting it show. "A fine outfit. I hope
they are paying you what you are
worth. Now to business — The writ-
ten questions first. You have them,
Penny?”

I went rapidly through the written
questions, giving out answers I had
already had time to think over, then
sat back as usual and said, "We have
time to bat it around a bit, gentle-
men. Any other questions?”

There were several. I was forced
to answer "No comment” only once
— an answer Bonforte preferred to
an ambiguous one. Finally I glanced
at my watch and said, "That wdll be
all this morning, gentlemen,” and
started to stand up.

"Smythe!” Bill shouted.

I kept right on getting to my feet,
did not look toward him.

"I mean you, Mr. Phony Bon-
forte-Smythe!” he went on angrily,
raising his voice still more.

This time I did look at him, with
astonishment . . . just the amount
appropriate, I think, to an important
official subjected to rudeness under
unlikely conditions. Bill was point-
ing at me and his face was red.
"You impostor! You small-time
actor! You fraud l”

The London Times man on my
right said quietly, "Do you want me
to call the guard, sir?”

I said, "No. He’s harmless.”

Bill laughed. "So I’m harmless,
huh? You’ll find out.”

"I really think I should, sir,” the
Times man insisted.

"No.” I then said sharply, "That’s

131

DOUBLE STAR

enough, Bill. You had better leave
quietly.”

"Don't you wish I would?” He
started spewing forth the basic story,
talking rapidly. He made no men-
tion of the kidnaping and did not
mention his own part in the hoax,
but implied that he had left us rather
than be mixed up in any such
swindle. The impersonation was at-
tributed, correctly as far as it went,
to illness on the part of Bonforte —
with a strong hint that we might
have doped him.

I listened patiently. Most of the
reporters simply listened at first, with
that stunned expression of outsiders
exposed unwillingly to a vicious fam-
ily argument. Then some of them
started scribbling or dictating into
minicorders.

When he stopped I said, "Are you
through, Bill?”

"That’s enough, isn’t it?”

"More than enough. I’m sorry.
Bill. That’s all, gentlemen. I must
get back to work.”

"Just a moment, Mr. Minister!”
Someone called out. "Do you want
to issue a denial?” Someone else
added, "Are you going to sue?”

I answered the latter question first.
"No, I shan’t sue. One doesn’t sue
a sick man.”

"Sick, am I?” shouted Bill.

"Quiet down, Bill. As for issuing
a denial, I hardly think it is called
for. However, I see that some of
you have been taking notes. While
I doubt if any of your publishers
would run this story, if they do, this

132

anecdote may add something to it.
Did you ever hear of the professor
who spent forty years of his life
proving that the Odyssey was not
written by Homer . . . but by an-
other Greek of the same name?”

It got a polite laugh. I smiled and
started to turn away again. Bill came
rushing around the table and grab-
bed at my arm. "You can’t laugh
it off!” The Times man — Mr.
Ackroyd, it was — pulled him away
from me.

I said, "Thank you, sir.” Then to
Corpsman I added, "What do you
want me to do, Bill? I’ve tried to
avoid having you arrested.”

"Call the guards if you like, you
phony! We’ll see who stays in jail
longest ! IF ah until they take your
fingerprints!”

I sighed and made the understate-
ment of my life. "This is ceasing
to be a joke. Gentlemen, I think 1
had better put an end to this. Penny
my dear, will you please have some-
one send in fingerprinting equip-
ment?” I knew I was sunk — but,
damn it, if you are caught by the
Birkenhead Drill, the least you owe
yourself is to stand at attention while
the ship goes down. Even a villain
should make a good exit.

Bill did not wait. He grabbed the
water glass that had been sitting in
front of me; I had handled it sev-
eral times. "The hell with that! This
will do.”

"I’ve told you before, Bill, to
mind your language in the presence
of ladies. But you may keep the
glass.”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

"You're bloody well right I’ll
keep it.” ■

"Very well. Please leave. If not,
1 11 be forced to summon the guard.”

He walked out. Nobody said any-
thing. I said, "May I provide finger-
prints for any of the rest of you?”

Ackroyd said hastily, "Oh, I’m
sure we don’t want them, Mr.
Minister.”

"Oh, by all means! If there is a
story in this, you’ll want to be cov-
ered.” I insisted because it was in
character — and in the second and
third place, you can’t be a little bit
pregnant, nor slightly unmasked . . .
and 1 did not want my friends pres-
ent lo be scooped by Bill; it was
the last tiling I could do for them.

We did not have to send for
tormal equipment. Penny had carbon
sheets and someone had one of
those lifetime memopads with plas-
tic sheets; they took prints nicely.
Then I said good morning and left.

We got as far as Penny’s private
office; once inside she fainted dead.
1 carried her into my office, laid her
on the couch, then sat down at my
desk and simply shook for several
minutes.

Neither one of us was worth much
the rest of the day. We carried on
as usual except that Penny brushed
off all callers, claiming excuses of
some sort. I was due to make a
speech that night and thought seri-
ously of canceling it. But I left the
news turned on all day and there
was not a word about the incident of
that morning. I realized that they

were checking the prints before risk-
ing it — after all, I was supposed to
be His Imperial Majesty’s first minis-
ter; they would want confirmation.
So I decided to make the speech,
since I had already written it and
the time was scheduled. I couldn’t
even consult Dak; he was away in
Tycho City.

It was the best one I made. I put
into it the same stuff a comic uses
to quiet a panic in a burning theater.
After the pickup was dead I just
sunk my face in my hands and wept,
while Penny patted my shoulder.
We had not discussed the horrible
mess at all.

Rog grounded at twenty hundred
Greenwich, about as I finished, and
checked in with me as soon as he
was back. In a dull monotone I told
him the whole dirty story; he listen-
ed, chewing on a dead cigar, his face
expressionless.

At the end I said almost plead-
ingly, "I had to give the fingerprints,
Rog. You see that, don’t you? To
refuse would not have been in
character.”

Rog said, "Don’t worry.”

"Huh?”

"I said, 'Don’t worry.’ When the
reports on those prints come back
from the Identification Bureau at
the Hague, you are in for a small
but pleasant surprise . . . and our
ex-friend Bill is in for a much bigger
one, but ' not pleasant. If he has
collected any of his blood money
in advance, they will probably take
it out of his hide. I hope they do.”

I could not mistake what he

DOUBLE STAR

133

meant. "Oh! Bat Rog . . . they won’t
stop there. There are a dozen other
places. Social Security . . . uh, lots
of places.”

"You think perhaps we were not
thorough? Chief, . I knew this could
happen, one way or another. From
the moment Dak sent word to com-
plete .Plan Mardi Gras, the necessary
cover-up started. Everywhere. But I
didn't think it necessary to tell Bill.”
He sucked on his dead cigar, took it
out of his mouth and looked at it.
"Poor Bill.”

Penny sighed softly and fainted
again.

Somehow we got to the final day.
We did not hear from Bill again;
the passenger lists showed that he
went Earthside two days after his
fiasco. If any news service ran any-
thing I did not hear of it, nor did
Quiroga’s speeches hint at it.

Mr. Bonforte steadily improved
until it was a safe bet that he could
take up his duties after the election.
His paralysis continued in part but
we even had that covered: he would
go on vacation right after election,
a routine practice that almost every
politician indulges in. The vacation
would be in the Tommie, safe from
everything. Sometime in the course
of the trip I would be transferred
and smuggled back — and the Chief
would have a mild stroke, brought
on by the strain of the campaign.

Rog would have to unsort some

134

fingerprints, but he could safely wait
a year or more for that.

Election day I was happy as a
puppy in a shoe closet. The imper-
sonation was over, although I was
going to do one more short turn.
I had already canned two five-minute
speeches for grand network, one
magnanimously accepting victory,
the other gallantly conceding defeat;
my job was finished. When the last
one was in the can, I grabbed Penny
and kissed her. She didn't even seem
to mind.

The remaining short turn was a
command performance; Mr. Bon-
forte wanted to see me — as him —
before he let me drop it. I did not
mind. Now that the strain was over,
it did not worry me to see him;
playing him for his entertainment
would be like a comedy skit, except
that I would do it straight. What
am I saying? — playing straight is
the essence of comedy.

The whole family would gather
in the upper living room — there,
because Mr. Bonforte had not seen
the sky in some weeks and wanted
to — and there we would listen to
the returns, and either drink to vic-
tory, or drown our sorrows and
swear to do better next time. Strike
me out of the last part; I had had
my first and last political campaign
and I wanted no more politics. I was
not even sure I wanted to act again.
Acting every minute for over six
weeks adds up to about five hundred
ordinary performances. That’s a long
run.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

They brought him up the lift in
a wheel chair. I stayed out of sight
and let them arrange him on a
couch before I came in; a man is
entitled not to have his weakness
displayed before strangers. Besides
I wanted to make an entrance.

I was almost startled out of
character. He looked like my father!
Oh, it was just a "family” resem-
blance; he and I looked much more
alike than either one of us looked
like my father, but the likeness was
there— and the age was right, for
he , looked old. I had not guessed
how much he had aged. He was thin
and his hair was white.

I made an immediate mental note
that, during the coming vacation in
space, I must help them prepare for
the transition, the re-substitution.
No doubt Capek could put weight
back on him; if not, there were ways
to make a man appear fleshier with-
out obvious padding. I would dye
his hair myself. The delayed an-
nouncement of the stroke he had
suffered would cover the inevitable
discrepancies. After all, he bad
changed this much in only a few

weeks; the need was to keep the
fact from calling attention to the
impersonation:

But these practical details were
going on by themselves in a corner
of my mind; my own being was
welling with emotion. Ill though
he was, the man gave off a force
both spiritual and virile. I felt that
warm, almost holy, shock one feels
when first coming into sight of that
great statue of Abraham Lincoln.
I was reminded of another statue,
too, seeing him lying there with his
legs and his helpless left side cover-
ed with a shawl: the wounded Lion
of Lucerne. He had that massive
strength and dignity, even when
helpless: "The Old Guard dies, but
it never surrenders.”

He looked up as I came in and
smiled the warm, tolerant and
friendly smile I had learned to por-
tray, and motioned with his good
hand for me to come to him. I
smiled the same smile back and
went to him. He shook hands with
a grip surprisingly strong and said
warmly, "I am happy to meet you
at last.” His speech was slightly

DOUBLE STAR

135

blurred and I could now see the
slackness on the side of his face
away from me.

"I am honored and happy to meet
you, sir.” I had to think about it
to keep from matching the blurring
of paralysis.

He looked me up and down, and
grinned. "It looks to me as if you
had already met me.”

1 glanced down at myself. ''I have
tried, sir.”

"'Tried!’ You succeeded. It is
an odd thing to see one's own self.”

I realized with sudden painful
empathy that he was not emotionally
aware of his own appearance; my
present appearance was "his” — and
any change in himself was merely
incidental to illness, temporary, not
to be noticed. But he went on speak-
ing, "Would you mind moving
around a bit for me, sir? I want
to , see me . . . you . . . us. I want
the audience’s viewpoint for once.”

So I straightened up, moved
around the room, spoke to Penny —
the poor child was looking from one
to the other of us with a dazed ex-
pression — picked up a paper,
scratched my collarbone and rubbed
my chin, moved his wand from un-
der my arm to my hand and fiddled
with it.

He was watching with delight. So
I added an encore. Taking the mid-
dle of the rug I gave the peroration
of one of his finest speeches, not
trying to do it word for word, but
interpreting it, letting it roll and
thunder, as he would have done —
and ending with his own exact end-

136

ing: "A slave cannot be freed, save
he do it himself. Nor can you en-
slave a free man; the very most you
can do is kill him!”

There was that wonderful hushed
silence, then a ripple of clapping —
and Bonforte himself was pounding
the couch with his good hand and
calling, "Bravo!”

It was the only applause I ever
got in the role. It was enough.

He had me pull up a chair then,
and sit with him. I saw him glance
at the wand, so I handed it to him.
"The safety is on, sir.”

"I know how to use it.” He look-
ed at it closely, then handed it back.
I had thought perhaps he would
keep it. Since he did not, I decided
to turn it over to Dak to deliver to
him. He asked me about myself and
told me that he did not recall ever
seeing me play, but that he had seen
my father’s "Cyrano.” He was mak-
ing a great effort to control the
errant muscles of his mouth and his
speech was clear but labored.

Then he asked me what I intend-
ed to do now? I told him that I had
no plans as yet. He nodded and said,
"We'll see. There is a place for you.
There is work to be done.” He made
no mention of pay, which made me
proud.

The returns were beginning to
come in and he turned his attention
to the stereo tank. Returns had been
coming in, of course, for forty-eight
hours, since the outer worlds and
the districtless constituencies vote
before Earth does, and even on

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

Earth an election "day” is more than
thirty hours long, as the globe turns.
But now we began to get the im-
portant districts of the great land
masses of Earth. We had forged far
ahead the day before in the outer
returns and Rog had had to tell me
that it meant nothing; the Expan-
sionists always carried the Out
Worlds. What the billions of people
still on Earth who had never been
out, and never would, thought about
it was what mattered.

But we needed every outer vote
we could get. The Agrarian Party
on Ganymede had swept five out of
six districts; they were part of our
Coalition, and the Expansionist Party
as such did not put up even token
candidates. The situation on Venus
was more ticklish, with the Venu-
sians split into dozens of splinter
parties divided on fine points of
theology impossible for a human
being to understand. Nevertheless
we expected most of the native
vote, either directly or through cau-
cused coalition later, and we should
get practically all of the human vote
there. The Imperial restriction that
the natives must select human beings
to represent them at New Batavia
was a thing Bonforte was pledged
to remove; it gained us votes on
Venus; we did not know yet how
many votes it would lose us on
Earth.

Since the Nests sent only observers
to the Assembly the only vote we
worried about on Mars w'as the hu-
man vote. We had the popular
sentiment; they had the patronage.

But with an honest count we ex-
pected a shoo-in there.

Dak was bending over a slide rule
at Rog’s side; Rog had a big ■ sheet
of paper laid out in some 1 compli-
cated weighting formula of his own.
A dozen or more of the giant metal
brains through the Solar System were
doing the same thing that night, but
Rog preferred his own guesses. He
told me once that he could walk
through a district, "sniffing” it, and
come within two per cent of its
results. I think he could.

Doc Capek was sitting back with
his hands over his paunch, as re-
laxed as an angleworm. Penny was
moving around, pushing straight
things crooked and vice versa and
fetching us drinks. She never seemed
to look directly at either me or Mr.
Bonforte.

I had never before experienced
an election-night party; they are not
like any other. There is a cozy, warm
rapport of all passion spent. It really
does not matter too much how the
people decide; you have done your
best, you are with your friends and
comrades and for a while there is
no worry and no pressure despite
the over-all excitement, like frosting
on a cake, of the incoming returns.

I don’t know when I’ve had so
good a time.

Rog looked up, looked at me, then
spoke to Mr. Bonforte. "The Con-
tinent is seesaw. The Americas are
testing the water with a toe before
coming in on our side; the only
question is, how deep?”

DOUBLE STAR

137

! 'Can you make a projection,
Rog?”

"Not yet. Oh, we have the popu-
lar vote but in the G:A. it could
swing either way, by half a dozen
seats.” He stood up. "I think I had
better mosey out into town.”

Properly speaking, I should have
gone, as "Mr. Bonforte.” The Party
Leader should certainly appear at
the main headquarters of the party
sometime during election night. But
I had never been in headquarters, it 1
being the sort of a button-holing
place where my impersonation might
be easily breached. My “illness”
had excused me from it during the
campaign; tonight it was not worth
the risk, so Rog would go instead,
and shake hands and grin and let
the keyed-up girls who had done the
hard and endless paperwork throw
their arms around him and weep.
“Back in an hour.”

Even our little party should have
been down on the lower level, to
include all the office staff, especially
Jimmie Washington. But it would
not work, not without shutting Mr.
Bonforte himself out of it. They
were having their own party of
course. I stood up. “Rog, I'll go
down with you and say hello to
Jimmie’s harem.”

"Eh? You don’t have to, you
know.”

“It’s the proper thing to do, isn’t
it? And it really isn’t any trouble
or risk.” I turned to Mr. Bonforte.
“How about it, sir?”

“I would appreciate it very
much.”

We went down the lift and
through the silent, empty private
quarters and on through; my office
and Penny’s. Beyond her door was
bedlam. A stereo receiver, moved
in for the purpose, was blasting at
full gain, the floor was littered, and
everybody was drinking, or smoking,
or both. Even Jimmie Washington
was holding a drink while he listen-
ed to the returns. He was not drink-
ing it; he neither drank nor smoked.
No doubt someone had handed it to
him and he had kept it. Jimmie had
a fine sense of fitness.

I made the rounds, with Rog at
my side, thanked Jimmie warmly and
very sincerely, and apologized that
I was feeling tired. “I’m going up
and spread the bones, Jimmie. Make
my excuses to people, will you?”

“Yes, sir. You've got to take care
of yourself, Mr. Minister.”

I went back up while Rog went
on out into the public tunnels.

Penny shushed me with a finger
to her lips when I came into the
upper living room. Bonforte seemed
to have dropped off to sleep and the
receiver was muted down. Dak still
sat in front of it, filling in figures
on the big sheet against Rog’s re-
turn. Capek had not moved. He
nodded and raised his glass to me.

I let Penny fix me a Scotch and
water, then stepped out into the
bubble balcony. It wars night both
by clock and by fact and Earth was
almost full, dazzling in a Tiffany
spread of stars. I searched North
America and tried to pick out the
little dot I had left only weeks

138

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

earlier, and tried to get my emotions
straight.

After a while I came back in;
night on Luna is rather overpower-
ing. Rog returned a little later and
sat back down at his work sheets
without speaking. 1 noticed that
Bonforte was awake again.

The critical returns were coming
in now and everybody kept quiet,
letting Rog with his pencil and Dak
with his slide rule have peace to
work. At long, long last, Rog shoved
his chair back. "That’s it, Chief,”
he said without looking up. "We’re
in. Majority not less than seven seats,
probably nineteen, possible over
thirty.”

After a pause Bonforte said
quietly, "You’re sure?”

"Positive. Penny, try another
channel and see what we get.”

I went over and sat by Bonforte;
I could not talk. He reached out
and patted my hand in a fatherly
way and we both watched the re-
ceiver. The first station Penny got
said: ". . . Doubt about it, folks;
eight of the robot brains say yes,
Curiae says maybe. The Expansionist
Party has won a decisive — ” She
switched to another.

". . . Confirms his temporary post
for another five years. Mr. Quiroga
cannot be reached for a statement
but his general manager in New
Chicago admits that the present trend
cannot be over — ”

Rog got up and went to the
phone; Penny muted the news down
until nothing could be heard. The
announcer continued mouthing; he

was simply saying in different words
what we already knew.

Rog came back; Penny turned up
the gain. The announcer went on for
a moment, then stopped, read some-
thing that was handed to him, and
turned back with a broad grin.
"Friends and fellow citizens, I now
bring you a statement from the
Supreme Minister!'’

The picture changed to my victory
speech.

I sat there, luxuriating in it, with
my feelings as mixed up as possible
but all good, painfully good. I had
done a job on the speech and I knew
it; I looked tired, sweaty, and calmly
triumphant. It sounded ad-lib.

I had just reached: "Let us go .
forward together, with freedom for
all — ” when I heard a noise behind
me.

"Mr. Bonforte!” I said. "Doc!
Doc! Come quickly!”

Mr. Bonforte was pawing at me
with his right hand and trying very
urgently to tell me something. But
it was no use; his poor mouth failed
him and his mighty indomitable will
could not make the weak flesh obey.

I took him in my arms — then he
went into Cheyne-Stokes breathing
and quickly into termination.

They took his body back down in
the lift, Dak and Capek together;

I was no use to them. Rog came up
and patted me on the shoulder, then
he went away. Penny had followed
the others down. Presently I went
again out onto the balcony. I needed
"fresh air” even though it was the

DOUBLE STAR

139

same machine-pumped air as the
living room. But it felt fresher.

They had killed him. His enemies
had killed him as certainly as if they
had put a knife in his ribs. Despite
all that we had done, the risks we
had taken, in the end they had mur-
dered him. "Murder most foul!”

I , felt dead inside me, numb with
the shock. I had seen "myself” die,
I had again seen my father die. I
knew then why they so rarely man-
age to save one of a pair of Siamese
twins. I was empty.

I don’t know how long I stayed
out there. Eventually I heard Rog’s
voice behind me. "Chief?”

I turned. "Rog,” I said urgently,

what you have to do now? Don't
you?”

I felt dizzy and his face blurred.
I did not know what he was talking
about — I did not want to know what
he was talking about.

"What do you mean?”

"Chief . . . one man dies — but
the show goes on. You can't quit
now.”

My head ached and my eyes would
not focus. He seemed to pull to-
ward me and away while his voice
drove on. ". . . Robbed him of his
chance to finish his work. So you’ve
got to do it for him. You’ve got to
make him live again!”

140

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

I shook my head and made a
great effort to pull myself together
and reply. "Rog, you don’t know
what you are saying. It’s preposter-
ous . . . ridiculous ! I’m no states-
man. I’m just a bloody actor! I make
faces and make people laugh. That’s
all I'm good for.”

To my own horror I heard myself
say it in Bonforte's voice.

Rog looked at me. "Seems to me
you’ve done all right so far.”

I tried to change my voice, tried
to gain control of the situation.
"Rog, you’re upset. When you’ve
calmed down you will see how
ridiculous this is. You’re right; the
show goes on. But not that way. The
proper thing to do — the only thing
to do — is for you yourself to move
on up. The election is won; you’ve
got your majority . . . now you take
office and carry out the program.”

He looked at me and shook his
head sadly. "I would if I could. I
admit it. But I can’t. Chief, you re-
member those confounded executive
committee meetings? You kept them
in line. The whole Coalition has
been kept glued together by the per-
sonal force and leadership of one
man. If you don’t follow through
now, all that he lived for — and died
for — will fall apart.”

I had no answering argument;
he might be right — I had seen the
wheels within wheels of politics in
the past month and a half. "Rog,
even if what you say is true, the
solution you offer is impossible.
We’ve barely managed to keep up
this pretense by letting me be seen

only under carefully stage-managed
conditions . . . and we’ve just missed
being caught out as it is. But to
make it work week after week,
month after month, even year after
year if I understand you — no, it
couldn’t be done. It is impossible.
I can't do it!”

"You can\" He leaned toward
me and said forcefully, "We’ve all
talked it over and wc know the
hazards as well as you do. But you’ll
have a chance to grow into it. Two
weeks in space to start with — hell,
a month if you want it! You’ll study
all the time — his journals, his boy-
hood diaries, his scrapbooks, you'll
soak yourself in them. And we'll all
help you.”

I did not answer. He went on,
"Look, Chief, you’ve learned that
a political personality is not one
man; it’s a team . . . it’s a team
bound together by common purposes
and common beliefs. We’ve lost our
team captain and we’ve got to have
another one. But the team is still
there.”

Capek was out on the balcony;
I had not seen him come out. I
turned to him. "Are you for this,
too?”

"Yes.”

"Its’ your duty,” Rog added.

Capek said slowly, "I won’t go
that far. I hope you will do it. But,
damn it, I won’t be your conscience.
I believe in free will, frivolous as
that may sound from a medical
man.” He turned to Clifton. "We

DOUBLE STAR

141

had better leave him alone, Rog. He
knows. Now it’s up to him.”

But, although they left, I was not
to be alone just yet. Dak came out.
To my relief and gratitude he did
not call me "Chief.”

"Hello, Dak.”

"Howdy.” He was silent for a
moment, smoking and looking out
at the stars. Then he turned to me.
"Old son, we've been through some
things together. I know you now,
and I’ll back you with a gun, or
money, or fists anytime, and never
ask why. If you choose to drop out
now, 1 won't have a word of blame
and I won’t think any the less of
you. You’ve done a noble best.”
"Uh, thanks, Dak.”

"One more word and I’ll smoke
out. Just remember this: if you de-
cide you can’t do it, the foul scum
who brain-washed him will win. In
spite of everything, they win.” He
went inside.

I felt torn apart in my mind . . .
then I gave way to sheer self-pity.
It wasn’t fair ! I had my own life
to live. I was at the top of my pow-
ers, with my greatest professional
triumphs still ahead of me. It wasn’t
right to expect me to bury myself,
perhaps for years, in the anonymity
of another man’s role . . . while the
public forgot me, producers and
agents forgot me . . . would proba-
bly believe I was dead.

It wasn’t fair. It was too much to
ask.

Presently I pulled out of it and
for a time did not think. Mother
Earth was still serene and beautiful

142

and changeless in the sky; I won-
dered what the election night cele-
brations there sounded like. Mars
and Jupiter and Venus were all in
sight, strung like prizes along the
zodiac. Ganymede I could not see,
of course, nor the lonely colony out
on far Pluto.

"Worlds of Hope,” Bonforte had
called them.

But he was dead. He was gone.
They had taken away from him his
birthright, at its ripe fullness. He
was dead.

And they had put it up to me
to recreate him, make him live
again.

Was I up to it? Could I possibly
measure up to his noble standards?
What would he want me to do? If
he were in my place . . . what
would Bonforte do? Again and again
in the campaign I had asked myself :
"What would Bonforte do?”

Someone moved behind me, I
turned and saw Penny. I looked at
her and said, "Did they send you
out? Did you come to plead with
me?”

"No.”

She added nothing and did not
seem to expect me to answer. The
silence -went on, nor did we look at
each other. At last I said, "Penny?
If I try to do it . . . will you help?”

She turned suddenly toward me.
"Yes. Oh, yes, Chief! I’ll help!”

"Then I’ll try,” I said humbly.

* * * *

I wrote all of the above twenty-
five years ago to try to straighten

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

oat my own confusion. I tried to
tell the truth and not spare myself
because it w'as not meant to be read
by anyone but myself and my thera-
pist, Dr. Capek. It is strange, after
a quarter of a century, to reread the
foolish and emotional words of that
young man. I remember him, yet
I have trouble realizing that I was
ever he. My wife Penelope claims
that she remembers him better than
I do — and that she never loved any-
one else. So time changes 11 s.

I find I can "remember” Bon-
forte’s early life better than I re-
member my actual life as that rather
pathetic person, Lawrence Smith, or
> — as he liked to style himself — "The
Great Lorenzo.” Does that make
me insane? Schizophrenic, perhaps?
If so, it is a necessary insanity for
the role 1 have had to play, for in
order to let Bonforte live again, that
seedy actor had to be suppressed . . .
completely.

Insane or not, I am aware that he
once existed and that I was he.. He
was never a success as an actor, not
really— though I think he was some-
times touched with the true madness.
He made his final exit still perfectly
in character; I have a yellowed news-
paper clipping somewhere which
states that he was "found dead” in
a Jersey City hotel room, from an
overdose of sleeping pills — appar-
ently taken in a fit of despondency,
for his agent issued a statement that
he had not had a part in several
months. Personally, I feel that they
need not have mentioned that about
his being out of work; if not libel-

ous, it was at least unkind. The date
of the clipping proves, incidentally,
that he could not have been in New
Batavia, nor anywhere else, during
the campaign of T5.

I suppose I should burn it.

But there is no one left aliVe to-
day who knows the truth other than
Dak and Penelope — except the men
who murdered Bonforte's body.

I have been in and out of office
three times now and perhaps this
term will be my last. I was knocked
out the first time when we finally put
the eetees — Venusians and Martians
and Outer Jovians — into the Grand
Assembly. But the non-human peo-
ples are still there and I came back.
The people will take a certain
amount of reform, then they want
a rest. But the reforms stay. People
don’t really want change, any change
at all — and xenophobia is very deep-
rooted. But we progress, as we must
. . . if we are to go out to the stars.

Again and again I have asked my-
self: "What would Bonforte do?”
I am not sure that my answers have
always been right (although I am
sure that I am the best-read student
in his works in the System). But I
have tried to stay in character in his
role. A long time ago someone —
Voltaire? — someone said, "If Satan
should ever replace God, he would
find it necessary to assume the at-
tributes of Divinity.”

I have never regretted my lost
profession. In a way, I have not lost
it; Willem was right. There is other
applause besides handclapping and
there is always the warm glow of a

DOUBLE STAR

143

good performance. I have tried, I

though I was happier then

— at least

suppose, to create the perfect work

I slept better. But there

is solemn

of art. Perhaps I have not fully

satisfaction in doing the best you can

succeeded — but I think my father

for eight billion people.

would rate it as a "good perform-

Perhaps their lives have

no cosmic

ance.”

significance, but they have

’ feelings.

No, I do not regret it, even

They can hurt.

THE

END

THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY

We haven’t published an An Lab report for some while. So I

hasten to

make up for lost time.

Your comments are not unheeded;

I can’t answer all those letters indi-

vidually, but the letters in total

help determine the magazine — and

specifically determine which authors get the bonus checks.

OCTOBER 1955

PLACE STORY

AUTHOR

POINTS

1. Call Him Dead (Con.)

Eric Frank Russell

1.2

2. The Short Life

Francis Donovan

2.2

3. New Blood

James Gunn

2.7

4. Security

Ernest M. Kenyon

3.9

NOVEMBER 1955

1. Under Pressure (Pt. 1)

Frank Herbert

1.33

2. Cubs of the Wolf

Raymond F. Jones

2.5

3. The Outvaders

Joe L. Hensley

3.5S

4. Slingshot

Irving W. Lande

3.75

5. Nobody Bothers Gus

Paul Janvier

3.83

DECEMBER 1955

1. Under Pressure (Pt. 2)

Frank Herbert

2.31

2. Sand Doom

Murray Leinster

2.91

3. The Golden Judge

Nathaniel Gordon

3.25

4. Faithfully Yours

Lou Tabakow

3.75

5. Far From Home

J. A. Taylor

4.00

JANUARY 1956

1. Under Pressure (Con.)

Frank Herbert

1.28

2. The Executioner

Algis Budrys

1.85

3. Indirection

Everett B. Cole

3.28

4. Won’t You Walk—

Theodore Sturgeon

3.85

The Editor.

144

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

THE REFERENCE LIBRARY

BY P. SCHUYLER MILLER

READERS’ SECOND CHOICE

Not quite four years ago, in the
"Reference Library” for June, 1952,
I asked our readers for their nomina-
tions for two 25-book libraries. One
was to be a "basic” library: their
choice of the best twenty-five books
of all time. The other was to be
a sort of historical collection, illus-
trating the development of science
fiction. The response was gratifying
(and international) ; the statistical
work was more than I had bargained
for, and took some time that I might
better have spent at the Chicago
convention; and the results were

THE REFERENCE LIBRARY

published in the January, 1953 issue.

I’d like to try it again: give our
readers a second choice. And by
starting earlier, I’ll be able to an-
nounce the results at the New York
convention, Labor Day week end
(and scoop myself).

I have a feeling that the results
this time may be quite different. In
1952 the great boom in science-
fiction publishing was just getting
under way; now it’s hit a peak and
subsided. Pocket-book s-f amounted
to next to nothing: Avon, now

seemingly inactive, was doing most
of the publishing of originals.

By and large, we were still look-

145

in g and thinking backward then.
Out of the twenty-eight books I
finally listed in the "Basic” library,
two were by H. G. Wells, one was
Wright’s "The World Below,” and
one was Aldous Huxley’s "Brave
New World.” Six were anthologies
— good ones — and seven were
single-author short-story collections.
In other words, as of 1952 modern
science fiction was at its best in the
short stories of Heinlein, Bradbury,
Asimov ("I Robot”), del Rey and
John Campbell, plus Groff Conklin's
and the Healy-McComas and Bleiler-
Dikty anthologies.

Wells probably got into the list
primarily because there are one-
volume collections of his novels and
short stories which enabled you to
get in just about everything he ever
wrote in the field, without having
to agree on one novel. The modern
science-fiction novels which made
the grade were van Vogt’s "Sian,”
"World of A” and "The Weapon
Makers”; de Camp’s "Lest Darkness
Fall”; Doc Smith’s "Gray Lens-
man”; Asimov’s "Foundation”; Or-
well’s "1984”; Russell’s "Sinister
Barrier”; Campbell’s "The Moon Is
Hell”; Heinlein’s "Beyond This
Horizon” (his two "future history”
books were both near the top of the
list) ; and Williamson’s "Human-
oids,” in addition to those I men-
tioned earlier. No Verne, no Doyle,
no Merritt, no Stapledon, no Bur-
roughs — though all of them but
Burroughs were in the "classics” list.

Let’s forget the classics this time.
What I want you to do, again, is

146

to send me your list of the twenty-
five science-fiction books which you
consider the best ever published.
They don’t have to be in print. They
very definitely can and should in-
clude paperbacks, because we found
out last time that the p-b’s are the
only form in which many of our
younger fans read science-fiction
novels.

These are the books you would
want to keep if your science-fiction
library were limited to twenty-five
books (not an impossibility with
present trends in apartment living:
most of my own collection is in dead
storage because I’ve no place to put
it) . These are books you would rec-
ommend as the greatest, in both
ancient and modern senses.

I think it’s going to be a very
different list from the one you gave
me four years ago.

Now, as to a deadline. Unless I
am miscalculating, you will get this
issue around the middle of March.
Last time you had three months to
make up your minds, and although
ballots kept coming along through-
out that time, I don’t think there
were any serious changes in the list
after the first couple of months. So
this time I’ll give you until the week
end of June 2-3 to get in your list.
This means that I have a month to
complete the tally — and you sent me
two hundred seventy-five different
titles last time — and get it into the
October "Reference Library,” on the
stands in mid-September, just after
you’ve heard the results at the
NYCON. Perhaps the Committee

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

will, go for an exhibit of the win-
ners: there’s unfortunately no s-f
foundation to set up an award per se.

One other thing: please send your
nominations to me here in Pitts-
burgh, rather than in care of the
magazine. They’ll be forwarded
from New York, of course, but if
you're just under the deadline you
may not make it. Even with three
months, there were some late ballots
last time. I rent a postoffice box
purely and simply as a permanent
address for this department, so why
not use it? The address:

P. Schuyler Miller
The Reference Library
P.O. Box 1573
Pittsburgh 30, Pa.

There is one way in which you
can legitimately load the ballot box
in this poll. No one tried it last
time, though I heard that it was
considered. If any fan club wants
to poll its members, add up the re-
sults in a Club list of twenty-five
"best” books, and send me the list
as a weighted vote of fifteen or
twenty-five or one hundred twenty-
five fans, go ahead and do it. I’ll
take the ballot as the considered
opinion of you all, unless there’s
something obviously phony about it.
The larger the number of votes cast,
the more meaning such a list as this
will have, statistically, as the joint
choice of ASF readers . . . and that’s
what we’re looking for. You can
even, if you want, send me the one
hundred twenty-five individual bal-
lots of your members (though I

shudder at what that’s going to dp
to my fine June' evenings !) .

Side bets, on the results are en-
tirely your own affair. I wouldn’t
make or take any, personally.

* * * *

There may be an ethic in our
society which is intended to keep
one book reviewer from snarling and
snapping at another. Professional
solidarity, and all that. If so, I
contend that the solidarity within
the science fiction-fantasy field —
writers, editors, fans — carries 1 more
weight.

Ray Bradbury’s new book, "The
October Country,” isn’t science fic-
tion; it’s pure fantasy, with a leaven-
ing of the "straight” psychological
horror tale. In fact, this is a new
edition of his classic "Dark Carni-
val” with four new stories added
and twelve of the old stories drop-
ped out of the Arkham House edi-
tion. The four new stories are all
tales of abnormal obsession without
any supernatural element: "The

Dwarf” (who sees himself big as
his dreams in a side-show’s distort-
ing mirror, until a little man cuts
him down); "The Watchful Poker
Chip of H. Matisse” (a classic bore
learns to shock the unshockable) ;
"Touched With Fire” (a woman
destined to be murdered); and "The
Wonderful Death of Dudley Stone”
(in which a novelist is reborn by
"dying” at the hands of a rival).
It’s a Ballantine hard-cover book, by
the way: no paperback edition —
308 pages, $3.50.

THE REFERENCE LIBRARY

147

The original book contained the
stories which made Ray Bradbury
famous, and which included some of
his most original ideas, story-wise,
before pure style began to take over
in "The Martian Chronicles.” Here
you’ll find that all-time classic,
"Homecoming,” with such other
macabre fancies as "The Small As-
sassin,” "The Crowd,” "The Man
Upstairs," and "There Was an Old
Woman.”

In the New York Times Book
Review for December 11th, "The
October Country” somehow got into
the hands of a main-line reviewer
who seems to have heard somewhere
that this Bradbury was an overnight
sensation, a real find. And his reac-
tion is disgusted bewilderment:

"... A gifted writer making a
play for the designation of the poor
man’s Poe,” says he. ". . . There has
been a feeling among critics that
this author was really on the verge
of something significant. The verge
he skirts in these stories ... is the
crumbling cliff-edge of the banal . . .
the only direction this kind of writ-
ing can follow is down.”

I am not trying to argue that Ray
Bradbury’s highly emotional style
is unique or great literature; I don’t
consider it "cheaply derivative,” and
I can see absolutely no resemblance
between "The Small Assassin” and
"The Bad Seed,” the William
March-Maxwell Anderson play —
which was written long after Brad-
bury’s tale — except in the child
killer.

The point, of course, is that the

148

Times reviewer, dealing with a
strange field, hasn’t bothered to find
out anything about the booknexcept
what is on the jacket, and ev'eri that
points out that "Dark Carnival” was
Bradbury’s first collection, published
in 1947. To throw his own words
back at him, the direction Ray Brad-
bury’s writing of main-line ' fiction
has followed has already been "up.”
Up, in fact, . to the stories felt sig-
nificant by "critics.”

In effect, what this critic is doing
is attacking a fantasy writer for
writing fantasy. He can’t understand
the rules of the game, so he refuses
to play and stalks off in a huff, claim-
ing a foul. If he ever gets his hands
on real science fiction. I’m surd we’ll
be hearing those grand, smug, old
word, "far-fetched,” "implausible,”
"fantastic,” and the rest, which most
of us thought were dead.

Another Kind, by Chad Oliver.

Ballantine Books, New York.

1955. 170 pp. $2.00; paper. 35<f

The first and last of the , seven
stories in this collection are published
for the first time; the other five come
from here ("Rite of Passage,”
1954), If, the late Science Fiction
Phis, and Fantasy & Science Fiction.
The author, as I’m sure you know,
has been doing graduate work in
anthropology and these stories are
mainly based on themes and ideas
he has turned up in his studies.

"The Mother of Necessity,” first

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

of the two new stories, is a short
reminiscence of what happened in
a future time when Americans
changed their societies overnight,
voting wealth on a succession of
social inventors, and what resulted
when one such inventor outsmarted
himself.

"Rite of Passage,” you’ll recall, is
the story about the survivors of the
starship Juarez, wrecked on a planet
whose people, the Nern, have a de-
ceptively primitive culture. The un-
raveling of that deception is the
story. Next comes "Scientific Meth-
od,” in which a man and an alien,
representing their peoples in the first
galactic contact, use an identical kind
of insurance. "Night” has a bite to
it: observers on another planet find
that one of them is meddling with
the other culture — then learn why.

There’s one fantasy in the collec-
tion, “Transformer,” about the peo-
ple who live in a model railroad
village and are turned off when the
current is cut off. It's about the
least of the lot. In "Artifact” we
have another first-contact story, in
which an archeologist is sent to learn
why a flint scraper has been found
in tlic midst of the Martian desert.
Finally, in the second new story —
and longest in the book — "A Star
Above It” we have a theme much
like that which is the backbone of
Isaac • Asimov’s “End of Eternity”
and Sam Merwin’s "Time Watcher”
yarns: with time travel has come the
responsibility for keeping meddlers
from changing the past and eradi-
cating the present present. But where

THE REFERENCE LIBRARY

"Eternity” was strong on the mecha-
nism of the watchers, and Sam Mer-
win has played up plot twists for all
they’re worth, Chad Oliver’s con-
cern is with the motives which would
make a man meddle with Time. He
also uses the opportunity to show us
bits of Aztec Mexico, just before the
Spanish conquest.

You may not find these stories
especially exciting, but most of them
show that Mr. Oliver’s anthropology
is "taking” and taking well. I hope
he takes a typewriter with him in
whatever far corner of the world he
chooses to explore. Or will he be the
anthropologist who first studies the
science-fiction world: writers and

editors, fen and fenne?

<K=X>

Caviar, by Theodore Sturgeon. Bal-
lantine Books, New York. 1955.
168 pp. $2.00; paper 35(i

This — as some other cornball in
SFdom is bound to point out if I
don’t — is the only caviar ever pro-
duced by a male sturgeon . . . and
needless to say, it’s top quality stuff,
though not all science fiction.

Three of the eight stories in the
collection were first published here,
and one is from Unknown. "Micro-
cosmic God” (April 1941) is about
as close as Sturgeon has come to a
routine sf gimmick: this time, a
biologist who bred himself a race
of short-lived creatures who evolved
their culture through many genera-
tions in a relatively short (human)

149

time. "Prodigy” (April 1949) tugs
at your heartstrings with the neces-
sity of "eliminating” a non-normal
imp of a child for the good of the
society, and "Medusa” is a space
story (February 1942) in which one
sane man in a crew of madmen is
sent to destroy the resistance of a
mentally hostile planet. Unknown’s
contribution was "The Green-Eyed
Monster” in June ’43 but is now
"Ghost of a Chance”: it’s the one
about a girl whose men are nastily
haunted, until . . .

Not all the stories are fantasy or
sf. The first in the book, "Bright
Segment,” is apparently new and is
a study in abnormal personality and
obsession. The closing piece is
“Twink” from a recent Galaxy, and
one of Sturgeon’s finest tales of the
mental relationships between chil-
dren and adults, via ESP. There
remain another story of a possessed
woman, "Blabbermouth” from
Amazing (February, 1947),, which
balances on that shaky fence between
the explicable and the supernatural,
and "Shadow, Shadow on the Wall,”
a very simple little tale of a practical
child and a mean stepmother, cour-
tesy of Imagination (1950).

It’s not the best of Sturgeon, but
maybe it will hold the line while
he is working on something to top
"More Than Human.”

<K-X>

Valley Beyond Time, by Vaughan

Wilkins. St. Martin’s Press, New

York, 1955. 304 pp. $3.00

150

Vaughan Wilkins is one of the
handful of writers who can reason-
ably consider themselves the heirs
of the Merritt tradition, and this is
at the same time a good and a poor
example of what he can do.

The imagination and color are
there: a parallel world, inhabited
by timeless semi-mortals, and in
contact with our own Earth only at
occasional moments and in far
places. To this world go a handful
of people from our own time, by
chance or planning, to find a new
place for themselves amid the
strangeness. We have a completely
unbelievable Senator from Texas, a
white-maned Conan type who talks
something which is by no means
Texan and not even American. We
have a mysteriously soured English
noblewoman playing chauffeur. We
have a small boy . . . assorted tribes
of pagan Irishmen . . . and plotting
aplenty on the outside.

The imagination and acceptance
of the marvelous which characterized
the best of Merritt’s books are
echoed here, but the plausibility is
lacking. Wilkins has done better,
and perhaps he will again.

<K=X I

Report on the Status Quo, by
Terence Roberts. Merlin Press,
New York. 1955. 63 pp. 111. $2.50

This is a little sleeper whose price
and size will probably make it a
best-seller on the remainder tables
and a rarity of increasing value and

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

following in the future. I liked it.

The report is supposedly filed
April 16, 1961 by one Oswald F.
Bristowe. It explains, simply and a
little dryly, the truth behind the hell
which burst on the world in 1958-59
when a season of unprecedented
rains flooded the central plateau of
the Caribbean island of Hispaniola,
just as World War III was getting
under way. Today, as we all know,
the Mesozoic has re-established it-
self on Earth and the plague of
dinosaurs, furiously dominant vege-
tation, and lesser-known but no less
dangerous bacterial, fungal and
other pests is on the verge of shov-
ing Man into space for want of
another refuge.

It should have made a popular
novelette in a magazine, and I think
the author might have earned more
that way.

<X=X)

Inside the Spaceships, by George

Adamski. Abelard-Schuman, New

York. 1955. 256 pp. $3.50

By now the Adamski Saucer — or
rather the Saucer-Mother Ship com-
bination — has pretty well established
itself as the official model in circles
who believe, that unidentified flying
objects (UFO’s) are the spaceships
of interplanetary observers. In this
hook, the author describes a series
of visits to the Masters who ride in
these ships, the first apparently
made before his "Flying Saucers

THE REFERENCE LIBRARY

Have Landed' ' was off the press.
Some of the contradictions among
the various witnesses of Adamski-
type Saucer visits are cleared up —
Saucer men come from all the plan-
ets as well as the Moon — details of
desia-n are elaborated, and the bulk
of the book is given up to gentle
demonstrance for our shortcomings
as civilized beings.

Certain other things seem clearer
now, too. It now appears that George
Adamski is not the experienced
amateur astronomer who builds his
own advanced telescopes — he was
given one, bought another. He has,
in fact, been for some time a lec-
turing philosopher with a small fol-
lowing of disciples, whose message
is coincidentally the same that the
Spacemen are trying to get across.

These two books are offered as
fact. You may consider them out-
right hoaxes. You may consider them
parables of a kind, written to lend
authority to Adamski’s philosophy
and teachings. I don’t think they
can possibly be considered illusion.
But if you are one of the many who
accept what is written here as the
truth, you are going to have to accept
certain statements by the Saucer peo-
ple which are distinctly at odds with
orthodox science. For example:

That space is a place full of mov-
ing, colored lights, apparently close
at hand, which are somehow invisi-
ble to the naked eye from Earth and
to telescopes and cameras. ( Pages
77-78)

That there are twelve planets in

151

the Sun’s family, and twelve, around
every other star . . . but only twelve
solar systems in the Galaxy! (86)

That all planets, including the
Moon, Mars, Saturn and Venus, have
comparable, breathable atmospheres
to which anyone will acclimate
quickly. (87)

That the Moon has not only an
atmosphere but a fairly sizable and
thriving population of plants, ani-
mals, insects and people, mostly
concentrated on the side away from
the Earth. Lunar clouds are invisible
to us, but telescopes show their
shadows. And there is a belt of trees,
lakes, cities, et al — apparently ex-
tending from pole to pole, rather
than around any parallel — just out
of sight on the back of the Moon.
(157-161)

That the radiations of fission and
fusion bombs are "lighter than the
atmosphere, but heavier than space”
(92), so that they become concen-
trated in a kind of shell around the
outside of the planet, attract and
worry the Space folk, and threaten
to upset the mechanics of the uni-
verse.

But why go on?

Golden Atom, 187 N. Union St.,

Rochester, N. Y. 1955. 100 pp.

$1.00

Larry Farsace, the Rochester fan,
is pretty well known in the science-
fiction world for his thorough

knowledge of science fiction and
fantasy of the earliest, ptc-Amazmg
days. His present collection repre-
sents the pooling of several others,
so that he is in a position to back
up his bibliographical statements,
and has read the fabulous early tales
he talks about.

Before the war Larry had his own
excellent fan magazine, "Golden
Atom” (Lylda for short, for reasons
Cummings fans will understand).
Now he has revived the "Atom” as
an annual, in printed form, with a
Rochester model on the cover hold-
ing the real first sf-fantasy magazine.
Street & Smith’s short lived Thrill
Book of 1919. Piece de resistance of
the issue, which is filled out with
an amazing mixture of family snap-
shots, bibliographical notes, editorial
ramblings, verse, pin-ups, and what
have you, is the first part of a remi-
niscent article by Harold Hersey
entitled "Looking Backward into the
Future.” (Later Hersey helped
launch this magazine, and had his
own second attempt in Miracle, Sci-
ence and Fantasy Stories in 1931.)

Here was a magazine solidly dedi-
cated to science fiction and fantasy,
four years before Weird Tales, seven
years before Amazing, eleven years
before Astounding. A file is the col-
lectors’ dream.

It’s an odd mixture, but collec-
tors and sf-historians should go for
it. For good measure, W. Paul
Cook’s "The Recluse” (1927) is
advanced as the first sf-fan magazine.
Any rivals?

152

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

P-B REPRINTS

Tl IE LAST SPACESHIP, by Murray
Leinster. Galaxy Novels, No. 25.
1955. 126 pp. 35?

As far as I know, this is an un-
abridged reprint of the Frederick
Fell edition (de Camp’s "Lest Dark-
ness Fall,” by the way, was abridged
by the author). Kim Rendall, rebel-
ling against the Disciplinary Circuit
which rules his mechanized culture,
steals a spaceship from a museum
and adventures among the stars.

WORLD OUT OF MIND, by J. T.
M'Intosh. Permabooks, New
York. 1955. 166 pp. 25(*

The story of Eldin Raigmore,
planted on Earth by a race of galactic
conquerors to prepare the way for
invasion.

TIME-X, by Wilson Tucker. Bantam
Books, New York. 1955. 140 pp.
2‘H -

Short stories originally published
as "The Science Fiction Sub-Treas-
ury.”

MISSION TO THE STARS, by A.
E. van Vogt. Berkley Books, New
York. 1955. 126 pp. 25 i
The original title was "The Mixed
Men.” It’s a typical van Vogtian epic
of plot and counterplot in the far
future, when the Lady Gloria Laurr
attempts to subdue the mysterious
civilization of Lhe Fifty Suns.

* * *

cAstounding

SCIENCE FICTION
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articles.

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of magazines published, and add in the num-
ber of newspapers ; then figure the scripts re-
quired for TV, radio and motion pictures each
week. Quite a total, isn’t it? Someone has to
write it all. And get paid for it too !

So, why don’t you try to make money writ-
ing. Perhaps you are one of those people who
have a flair for writing.

Your big problem may be that your work
lacks the “secret” ingredients used by profes-
sional writers. What is the “secret” ? Frankly,
there’s nothing secret about those ingredients.
Most any professional fiction writer who is
also a good teacher and is ivilling to figure
them all out and explain them to you could do
so — maybe!

Now, where can you learn these so-called
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while I am naturally prejudiced, I honestly be-
lieve we have the best course and the most help-
ful instructors in the business. Our students
and graduates say the same thing. True, not
everyone succeeds, but many sell when only
halfway through the course, and many more
become full-time professional selling writers.

As Rupert Hughes says in recommending
Palmer Institute to both new and experienced
writers: “Writing is one of the few arts of
which much can be best taught by correspond-
ence.” And here’s how we make it work: After
you enroll, you are assigned a teacher who is
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If we don’t think that you were meant to be
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THE REFERENCE LIBRARY

153

BRASS TACKS

Dear Mr. Campbell:

In Francis Donovan's absorbing
tale, "The Short Life,” the alien
Challon crashes on the earth and
discovers himself surrounded by the
impossible: a race of nontelepaths
so intelligent that they could think
vicious circles around anyone else in
the universe, and so perverse as to
constitute a menace to themselves
and everyone else. Overcoming his
natural horror and disgust, the Chal-
lon stays on to study the ways of
men and see if means can be found
to save mankind from futility as well
as to save the universe from the pos-
sibility that men might break loose
and scatter their pestilence abroad.
He hesitates to assist in developing
the full powers latent in a race which
appears to his telepathic mind to be
unsane. His conclusion after eight
years is that these people are so
isolated from each other, so riddled
with fears, and so completely ani-

154

mated by self-interest, that no one
of them could be trusted not to exalt
himself above all the world if he
had the power to do so. The alien
fears that men would misuse their
potentialities as "homo superior,”
just as they have misused their great
intelligence, by making their en-
hanced powers the means of forcibly
dominating everything in the path
of their will-to-power. He indicates
by his proposed course of action that
in his opinion telepathy alone could-
n’t work a quick miracle-cure on their
egocentricity; any increased capabil-
ities would allow fuller scope to their
dangerous tendencies. If mankind's
real genius is to be saved for good
purposes, the Challon appears to
think that man’s basic nature must be
changed and his whole attitude re-
oriented.

This is the grim conclusion he has
reached after his study of the nature
of man. Yet the Challon hopefully

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

presents his diagnosis of human ills
to liis friend Phil, and doesn’t ap-
pear surprised at Phil’s concurring
in the unflattering analysis. The
thought of both seems to be that the
best achievements of the finest men
have never been wholly untainted
by motives of self-interest. Phil ad-
mits that he wouldn’t even trust
himself not to abuse plenary powers.

There is something odd about
Phil's ready admission.

How does his attitude fit in with
the Chalion’s general theory of psy-
chology, according to which men
of our race have "never truly known
either their fellows or themselves”?
Phil asks: "Are we that bad?” He
would like to think we aren’t, but
it is apparent that at least one human
being is not unduly surprised to hear
that from an outsider’s point of view
we are that bad. So there must be
some small capacity of self-transcen-
dence in men that enables 11s to see
ourselves as we really are, if only in
brief flashes, and see more dearly
than the Challon thinks possible.
After all, if the Chalion’s pessimistic
picture had been entirely correct
there would have been no point of
contact whatever between him and
mankind. If men were exclusively
islands of manic self -centerness, Phil
wouldn’t have listened to the Challon
at all, wouldn’t have comprehended
his alien values, and, therefore,
couldn’t have agreed with surprising
humility to the Challon’s conclusions.

Doesn’t it seem as if both the
Challon and the human being are
guided by respect lor the same ulti-

Alore astounding
than fiction!

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THE REPORT ON
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by Edward J. Ruppelt

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mate standard, whose existence is
taken so much for granted that it
is never even mentioned? Apparent-
ly, the Challon’s curiosity was never
roused by the phenomenon that these
men who can’t even penetrate each
other’s mind, nonetheless know and
honor in the breach the same norm
known and honored by races which
have .evolved light-years away. With-
out hesitating, Phil accepts the alien’s
implied definitions of what consti-
tutes good and evil, sane and unsane
conduct on this and on any planet.
But Phil is compelled, when con-
fronted with the Challon’s conclu-
sion, to realize that he and his fellow
men have consistently departed this
norm all the while they seem to have
understood it remarkably well.

The fact that men generally have
felt, the pressure of "categorical im-
peratives” such as the Challon fol-
low^. is suggested by the existence
of a ' 'troublesome conscience in all
who’kre reckoned sane by their com-
patriots. The effect of this pressure
is also demonstrated by the omni-
presence of hypocrisy. Few men have
seriously disputed Saint-Simon’s dic-
tum that hypocrisy is the tribute vice
pays to virtue. In order to present the
paired opposites "vice and virtue,”
a commonly recognized and fairly
widely accepted norm of goodness
must be assumed, from which vice
departs. The Challon says he has
seen nothing but "false fronts or
motives or impulses among men.
Thus our hypocrisy may be consid-
ered a manifestation of deep-seated

156

respect for the laws we accept but
flout.

Phil sees that men must be sepa-
rated from the rest of the universe
and denied access to a fuller life
for as long as our self-will dominates
our outlook so completely as to put
us in a state of revolt against uni-
versal good. But Phil also shows that
men are capable of occasional mo-
ments of objectivity, when he con-
curs in the judgment made against
humanity, and proves his agreement
by putting himself into the alien’s
"hands,” hoping thus to carry for-
ward the Challon’s plans for man-
kind's eventual regeneration.

In the main, the Challon’s find-
ings are profoundly reasoned and
tragically confirmed by human his-
tory. Apparently, he had studied
deeply in the humanities after his
pseudo-parents remarked that : this
was a field in which he was weak.
But perhaps his "short life” on this
planet had not given him time to
digest fully all the material available,
for some of his peripheral observa-
tions seem to be inconsistent with
his basic philosophy of man.

At one point he deplores the com-
plexities of taboos, laws, and moral
codes by which men bind themselves.
Could he have considered that law
is the necessary prerequisite of any
kind of community living among
nontelepaths? He says that "the
eternal wonder is that mankind has
made any progress at all.” The easy,
natural state of constant communion
enjoyed by telepathic races is not
open to human beings, so in this

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

world the only alternative to the
tolal dissolution of community is law.
The feeble and groping beginnings
of law are taboos. The Challon is
jumping to conclusions as well as
showing himself unexpectedly pa-
tronizing when he calls all taboos
and moral codes', without discrimina-
tion, "harmful and illogical." As he
says, a great many of them have out-
lived their usefulness as cultural situ-
ations changed, but each taboo prob-
ably had a logical function in the
culture when and where it was first
accepted as binding. Also, he has
not borne in mind the fact that rules
and codes which become irrelevant
tend to be replaced gradually by
others considered better, and in this
way some progress has been made
in the field of law and ethics. Among
the Challon ’s people, laws and codes
would happily not be necessary, but
if men are anywhere near as egocen-
tric as the telepathic alien believes,
would we not be compelled to de-
velop systems of moral and forceful
restraint in order to survive as a
race? And would these codes not
have to be made as precise and de-
tailed as possible, to circumvent hu-
man ingenuity in defying them or
twisting their meaning to suit selfish
aims? It is unfortunate that we must
go to such lengths to keep ourselves
within decent bounds, of course. But
it would be even more unfortunate
if we had never found means of
forcibly restraining our impulses,
when they prove injurious to indi-
vidual and racial welfare. The Chal-
lon might have tactfully forborne to

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BRASS TACKS

157

chide mankind, in the person of his
friend Phil, for the multitude of our
attempts at self-control and self-
protection. It is at least pointless to
remind a man with a wooden leg
: that his movements are clumsy and
sadly hampered by the presence of
a misshapen log in place of a real
leg.

At another point, the alien pre-
sents the thought that feelings of
guilt and shame are "deranged emo-
tions,” unknown in his home world.
On the contrary, the Challon might
well have felt that the presence of
a sense of guilt is the only evidence
of any degree of sanity among us.
If a seriously deranged man goes
berserk and kills pointlessly, he is
often judged not guilty by reason
of insanity. Someone else who delib-
erately kills to suit his personal con-
venience is quite generally considered
guilty of homicide. If he knew that
what he did was wrong according to
the standards acknowledged by his
i culture, he is called guilty. If a
murderer later develops guilty feel-
ings about what he did, would the
Challon think these emotions of guilt
and shame deranged? Of course, the
murderer also might be afflicted with
truly deranged guilt-sensations about
other matters, but that is beside the
point here. There remains plenty of
cause for justifiable and rational
guilt-feelings among men. Would it
not be an indication of some small
flickering of health, rather than de-
rangement, if men feel shame when
faced with the fact of their own
betrayal of their own norms of good-

158

ness? Here again, the Challon is not
discriihinating.

Apparently, the alien does not see
that the sense of guilt performs a
function similar to the feeling of
pain: it is unpleasant, and seems de-
signed to urge us to moral action, as
pain urges us to take action to cure
our bodily ills. Certainly, the healthy
purposes of both sensations can be
and are frequently neglected or per-
verted, but they both seem necessary
to the individual and social life of
men. Would they not be useful to
telepathic races as well ?

Actually, the Challon himself
mentions an instance of bad con-
science among his people. He dis-
cusses the Challonari, (a "part-
organic, artificial brain,” "devised as
a tool” by the Challon’s race) and
he tells Phil that "the damnable
thing,” (i.e., the thing about the
Challonari which caused his race
feelings of guilt and self-condemna-
tion) was that this device which had
been made as a tool, turned out to
have a rudimentary personality and
a . childlike trust in its embarrassed
creators. "To the Challon, the con-
trol or coercion of an independent
intelligence was a cardinal outrage.”
Here is an example of a very strong-
ly-held opinion on the part of the
Challon, yet elsewhere the alien
seems to condemn men for holding
strong opinions on any subject. In
this instance, it is almost as if the
unexpected awareness appearing in
their Challonari "tools” reminded
the Challon of an old racial taboo.

In the end, the Challon suggests

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

no easy solution to the human prob-
lem, nor does he answer specifically
the question of whether his environ-
ment has made man as he is, or the
nontelepathic man forms his environ-
ment. In practice, the Challon tacitly
dismisses optimistic theories of the
seli-perfectability of man, as if he
were convinced that even if we were
born into paradise itself we would
soon turn it into something more
like home. The alien believes that if
"homo superior” is to appear among
men, he must make his appearance
under the tutelage and auspices of
powers beyond men. Therefore, the
Challon has directed all his efforts
to the task of sending back to the
earth one uncorrupted human being,
Timmy, who shall be endowed with
superhuman faculties.

The reader is left to wonder what
effect Timmy’s reappearance among
men might produce, if the Challon’s
plans succeeded. Would they accept
Timmy gladly, or instead vent resent-
ful envy on him for bringing their
own shortcomings into glaring focus ?
How long could most men bear the
final threat to their self-esteem, which
Timmy would embody, before taking
advantage of his probable renuncia-
tion of coercion in order to do away
with him? And if Timmy did not
make use of the forces at his com-
mand to annihilate those who might
oppose him, could men be sure some-
one like Timmy would stay dead? —
Mrs. William Krieg, Bethesda, Md.

You mean, ” It’s been tried, and that
method didn’t work?”

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BRASS TACKS

159

{Continued from page 5)
of the group do not apply to any
individual of the group. Life insur-
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laws of human-group behavior; they
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And they are absolutely meaning-
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But they are important and useful
to any individual-as-such, because, by
making himself a member of that
group, he can accurately predict his
financial status, on a "not-less-than”
basis, which he could not do for
himself-as-an-individual-alone.

The group has an effective immor-
tality characteristic that the individ-
ual does not have; in many ways, the
group is greater than, and different
from, its individual members.

But in many other ways, the in-
dividual is greater than and different
from the group. The group is not
creative; it cannot even generate it-
self, because a group is not capable
of reproduction. Only the individual
human | beings are. It is not creative
with respect to ideas; it’s conserva-
tive, and no group ever invented
anything; — individuals do.

But no individual can build an
airplane capable of transcontinental
high-speed flight — only a group can.
But the group, of course, didn’t in-
vent it, or invent the knowledge nec-
essary to build it — individuals did.

The individual and the group have
a complementary relationship of
some kind — but we can’t name it,
or describe it, because we have no

160

understanding of group-individual
relationships. The energy of a light
quantum is a function of its wave
length . . . but "wave length” is a
characteristic inherently nonsense
with respect to an individual "quan-
tum” ! And without individual
quanta, there could be no group
showing wave behavior.

The sine wave, so familiar to
sound engineering, radio engineer-
ing, and optical theory has a peculiar
characteristic worth consideration;
the statistician’s favorite curve of
random distribution is the famous
"bell-shaped curve.” Any electronic
engineer recognizes that bell-shaped
curve as being remarkably similar in
shape to the output curve of a sin-
gle Class B amplifier tube — ^and two
Class B amplifier tubes, in push-pull,
yield a perfect sine-wave output. A
sine wave is simply an endless series
of summed random distribution
functions of alternatively positive
and negative characteristic — the sta-
tistics of, a group of somethings.

The psychotherapist, unlike the
research psychologist, is directly
concerned with the relationships be-
tween the individual and his social
group — and he’s having a hellish
job getting anywhere with the prob-
lem, because nobody has the foggiest
beginning of an understanding-
fundamental understanding, not
rule-of-thumb magical ritual formu-
las ! — of that problem. The psycho-
therapist doesn't understand; the pa-
tient doesn’t understand, and knows
he doesn’t, and the society doesn't

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understand. Trouble is, the society
is remarkably, immovably convinced
that it does know the answers, and
violently insists that the individual
accept those answers. Too and in-
cluding the violence of destruction
of the individual as an individual by
either carving out pieces of his
brain, or executing him.

The essence of the trouble, I be-
lieve, lies in the fact that the social
group knows, by actual, real and
unarguably valid experience, that
certain laws of cultural behavior are
valid. It knows, because they have
been tried and tested, and proved
out — as solidly as the actuarial tables
of the insurance companies. That
knowledge is real; it is valid; it does
work beyond peradventure of doubt.
And the cultural group insists that,
for their own good, individuals must
learn the reality and soundness of
that knowledge, and accept it. That
if only those stubborn, wrong-head-
< d individuals would have the sense
to recognize the wisdom the cultural
group has learned through long ex-
perience . . .

Hut the trouble is, of course, that
no individual can possibly apply

that knowledge and wisdom! It does
not apply to individuals at all! It’s
like demanding that, since nuclear
particles can do that energy-barrier
penetration hop, a spaceship, if it
just weren’t so bull-headed and
stubborn, would do the same thing.

Naturally, there are innumerable
areas wherein the same laws apply
to individual and to group — those
don't cause trouble, naturally, be-
cause individual and group readily
agree. It's in the areas of inherent
difference that the individual learns
that the culture is cruel, vicious, even
sadistic in using its crushing force
to cripple and injure him — and the
cultural group learns that individuals
are stubborn, wrong-headed, and
irrational.

The rights of those matters, quite
obviously, aren’t going to be settled
by mutual hate campaigns, nor by
resigned apathy and misery. And
since, by the nature of the thing, a
culture-group can’t create a new idea
to save itself, it’s going to be up to
the individuals to solve the problem.
And not just any individual; ob-
viously, it’ll take a major genius to
crack the problem.

Till! CROUP AND THE INDIVIDUAL

161

He’ll probably be a physical sci-
entist, too — not a social scientist.
Cultural groups and human individ-
uals don’t mind people making new,
basic discoveries of relationships that
don't force any change in their ways
of living. If some physicist-mathe-
matician w r ants to work out the de-
tailed structure of relationships be-
tween photons and light-waves, why
— go ahead! Glad to have you do it,
if that sort of esoteric and unimpor-
tant fiddle-de-dee interests you.

But anyone trying to lay down
laws that force me to acknowledge
relationships to the group that 1
don’t think I want — "I’ll murder the
man!” "Nobody’s going to dictate
how I’m gonna live! Kill him!”

If the discoveries are first express-
ed in purely physical terms — the re-
lationship laws can be accepted and
recognized by everyone quite peace-
ably. It’s true for things, of course —
but I’m not a thing, so I don’t have
to accept it in my own living.

But certain individuals who,
starting as young children still will-
ing to learn relationships, begin to
learn the socio-psychological appli-
cation of the basic principles, will
"unfairly” start gaining advantages
—and, nastily, make it necessary for
anyone wanting to stay in the race
to learn the validity of those rela-
tionships too, willy-nilly, like-it-or-
not. You just can’t get people buying
Model A Fords to support your
buggy-whip industry.

Gadgets are the really potent so-

cial reformers — not orators. Henry
Ford was the greatest social innova-
tor of the last half century — he and
his cheap Tin Lizzie changed the
mores, the economics, and the politi-
cal framework of the culture. And
without half trying! The movie
helped a lot, of course; think what
it did to the mores concerning the
relationship of the sexes! You can’t
keep up the always-watched-by-
chaperones mores for young men
and women when the cheap car and
the movie give them an easy, secure
and socially accepted place to meet
in the relative privacy of a statistical
group !

Of course, television is bringing
them back into the home for court-
ship again — but in the meantime, the
human right to courtship in private
has been established too firmly to be
dislodged.

All done by gadgets, you see; the
orators fulminated against the shift,
ministers thundered from pulpits —
but people wanted the gadgets, and
the consequences of the gadgets
came along.

Of course, everybody is aware
that what is really important to hu-
man beings are the human things,
not mere mechanical gadgets. That’s
why science fiction, dealing as it does
so largely with mere technical gad-
getry, isn’t really important on the
human scene.

Let’s let ’em go on dreaming for
a while, shall we?

The Editor.

162

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